


We Are The Time, We Are The Famous

by coricomile



Series: We Are [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-18 09:44:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7309963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Artemi nods and does his best not to laugh himself sick. He's in Pittsburgh, about to play his rookie season in the NHL, and Evgeni Malkin is his keeper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are The Time, We Are The Famous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prompt_fills](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prompt_fills/gifts).



> For prompt_fills, who graciously gave me basically free reign to pick not only the plot, the mood, and the direction, but also the characters. Hopefully you don't regret that. 
> 
> In which the Penguins stole Artemi from the KHL instead of the Blackhawks. This follows very little of the actual season including and up to actual game scores/scorers, injuries, trades, and staffing changes. I do what I want. 
> 
> This is what happens when I'm not given a prompt: I write the fic I want under the guise of gift giving and I am so, so sorry about that. I don't know how this got so rambling and long. It was just supposed to be a short fic about Artemi and Geno having ~bonding moments, but Sid got involved and things spiraled from there. And then there was Cup winning and this got infinitely longer. 
> 
> Pittsburgh-ease is a real thing that I was taught in my first days of college. I can deal with bubbler and gumbands, I used red up long before I moved there, and jagoff is really, really satisfying to say, but I will never forgive them for _yinz_. _That is not a word_. You cannot convince me otherwise.
> 
> Thank you to lanalucy for the beta!

The statues are hideous. Artemi stands in front of them, bags at his feet, and reaches forward to prod the one on the left in the mouth. It's hot under the sun, the black steel soaking up heat like crazy, but he can't help himself. It's just _so ugly_. He's stalling, sweating in the hoodie he'd worn on the plane. This is going to be his home until at least the end of the season and he doesn't know what to do with that. 

The house is massive, towering and blocky. Artemi can't imagine buying something like it for himself. He can't imagine ever needing that much room. He looks down at his bags, all the possessions he has in America, and wonders what kind of place he'll eventually get. Something small, maybe. Nothing like this. 

Eventually he shakes himself and gathers his things. He's man enough to admit that he's nervous. Hockey is hockey, and he knows he'll pick up the changes soon enough, but this house belongs to Evgeni Malkin and he's allowed to be just a little starstruck. 

Evgeni answers the door in sweats and a battered Penguins t-shirt. He grins and ushers Artemi inside, stealing his bags away as soon as Artemi's in the sprawling foyer. He's even bigger in real life and Artemi feels small next to him, like he's toddling out onto the ice for the first time again.

Evgeni gives him a tour through the house, waving at the rooms he thinks Artemi might be interested in. The house looked big on the outside, but inside it's even more ridiculous. They pass a room with a billiards table in the middle and Artemi takes a moment to look at the framed jerseys and photos. 

"Not my idea," Evgeni says sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "My parents visit a lot. They decorated when I was away."

"Your parents decorated your house?" Artemi asks. It's the first real thing he's said and he winces. Evgeni just laughs and shrugs. 

"It's a big house," he says, like Artemi hadn't noticed. He leads them upstairs, pointing out the guest rooms, the bathrooms, his own room down at the end of the hall. He opens the door next to the stairs and sets Artemi's bags on the bed. It looks freshly made, the quilt a dark shade of gold that Artemi bets was also picked out for him. "You can change rooms if you want. Make yourself at home."

Artemi nods and does his best not to laugh himself sick. He's in Pittsburgh, about to play his rookie season in the NHL, and Evgeni Malkin is his keeper. This is not what he'd pictured his future life five years ago.

\---

The Penguins are loud and talk too fast. They surround him immediately, clapping him on the shoulder or talking at him. He understands a word here and there- his name, a few hockey terms- but it all just sounds like noise. Evgeni saves him, shooing off the team and leading him to his stall. The Roman letters look strange, but he knows enough to recognize his own name. Maybe, he thinks, he should have started learning English sooner. 

"How much do you understand?" Evgeni asks him. 

"Almost nothing," Artemi admits. Evgeni laughs. A few of the guys look over and shake their heads, but Evgeni ignores them. 

"Seryozha's kids taught me most of what I know," he says. "It gets easier after a while." Artemi doesn't know what to say to that, so he just nods. He's supposed to start tutoring soon. Until then, he's glad to at least have one person to talk to. 

The first practice is light. Artemi spends most of it familiarizing himself with the rink, skating suicides until he thinks he can remember the distance between lines without looking. Coach puts him in a few different lines, testing him with different centers. Crosby is as intimidating as Artemi had expected, but he plays beautifully. Evgeni pats him on the head as he passes and makes a face at Crosby's back. 

After practice, Crosby pulls him aside and introduces himself in painful Russian. It's about four hours too late, but Artemi appreciates the effort. He says his own hello in English, mouth fitting strangely around the word, and Crosby gives him a lopsided grin. 

"He's going to take you out to lunch," Evgeni says in passing, stripped down to his Under Armour. Someone- Tanger?- yells at him, and Evgeni puts up his middle finger. 

"I don't want to go to lunch," Artemi says. The thought of being alone with Sidney Crosby, nodding and smiling to whatever he says for however long they're out, is enough to make his stomach knot up. 

"Too bad," Evgeni says. "It's Sid's thing. I'll come with you. He owes me lunch, anyway."

Crosby- Sid- takes them to a little diner and orders for Evgeni and himself. He pauses for Artemi's order and Artemi stares helplessly at Evgeni until Evgeni says something to the waiter. He makes a note to start the English lessons sooner rather than later. He feels like a child, lost and confused by the simplest things. 

Sid welcomes him to the team and asks him questions about how he'd liked the rink and the guys, asks him questions about his preferred style of play. Evgeni dutifully translates, rolling his eyes when Sid gets impatient. Sid's still intense, still stares a little too much to be comfortable, but he seems well intentioned. 

"He's weird," Evgeni says fondly, "but you get used to it." Sid kicks him under the table and Artemi's startled enough that he laughs. Evgeni grins and steals Sid's pickles. Artemi can do this. It's just like any other team. 

\---

It does get easier. Artemi settles into the a rhythm. Evgeni Malkin, superstar in two countries, becomes Zhenya, habitual snack stealer and bad joke teller. The Penguins play well enough. Artemi gets his first goal in his first game off a pass from Bonito. It's not a pretty goal, but it still counts. He shouts before he's slammed into the boards by his teammates. When he gets back to the bench Sid knocks their gloves together and Zhenya slaps his back hard enough to sting. 

Artemi spends his evenings in Zhenya's living room with his laptop, Skyping his English tutor. Sometimes Zhenya sits with him, repeating sentences the same way Artemi does. It's weird, but it's a nice routine. Neither one of them are particularly good cooks, but they make do with whatever the grocer delivers. 

Sid is around all the time. He eats breakfast with them before games and sometimes comes over on off days to play video games. He talks directly to Artemi, which is nice, even if Artemi still only understands maybe one word in five. Zhenya makes a lot of rude comments about him in Russian and Artemi does his best not to laugh when Sid's face gets pinched. 

"He understands a little," Zhenya says when Artemi asks. "He tried to learn when I first moved here, but mostly he knows how to swear and insult mothers." Artemi can't imagine Sid insulting anyone's mother, but he only has Zhenya's translations to go off of. 

"Don't talk about me," Sid says. 

"Nice things," Artemi tries, tongue sticking on the words. Sid grins at him before scowling at Zhenya again. Zhenya laughs until Sid hits him with a pillow. They're both weird, but Artemi likes it.

\---

Artemi tries to explore the city. It's nothing at all like home, but there's a lot to see and do. He's still new enough that barely anyone stops him, and when they do they seem more charmed by his complete inability to understand them than anything else. Zhenya had given him a rundown of what the locals called _Pittsburgh-ese_ , the words that meant one thing when his tutor said them and another when people in Pittsburgh said them. He doesn't get it, not really, but he likes the way the word _jagoff_ feels when he says it 

He grows fond of the parks and the constant parade of yellow everything everywhere. Zhenya doesn't live in the city itself, but Artemi takes the buses around town, his phone clutched nervously in his hand for when he inevitably gets lost. 

The neighborhoods are vast and varied, old houses and factories mixed in with shiny steel monstrosities. He visits the Warhol museum on Sid's recommendation and then the Mattress Factory, which is both nearby and has nothing at all to do with mattresses. He takes photos of the weird public art and sends them to friends from home. 

When the homesickness becomes too much, he and Zhenya stay inside and talk about home, about the KHL and their families. It's not easy, not really, but Artemi feels himself settling in. 

If they want him at the end of the season, if he does well enough, he might choose to stay. 

\---

In February, Zhenya's knee goes out in practice. One moment he's skating toward Flower and the next he's on the ice, stick flying across the rink to smack into the boards. Practice screeches to a halt as Sid hurries over. Artemi watches, a lump in his throat, as Sid helps him up and the trainers skate him off the ice and down the tunnel. 

"Okay?" Artemi asks. He hates that he can't say more, can't ask more, but Sid just stares down the tunnel, lips pressed together, and nods. 

"His knee hurts if he uses it too much," Sid says tightly. Coach blows the whistle and they go back to practice. Artemi feels unsettled without Zhenya there, unable to communicate with anyone but Sid, who seems to be able to read minds. 

After practice, Artemi loiters in the locker room, trying to figure out how he's going to get home. Zhenya drives them to everything. Artemi hasn't gotten around to getting an American driver's license. He could, theoretically, drive Zhenya's car, but it would be his luck to get pulled over and have to answer for it. He pulls out his phone and looks for a cab company.

"I'll drive you home," Sid says. Artemi jumps at the sound of his voice. Sid looks tired, damp from the shower and pale, and Artemi follows him silently. 

Zhenya's already there when Artemi walks into the front room, Sid on his heels. His leg is propped up on the couch, his eyes glassy with painkillers. Sid sighs and heads to the kitchen. Artemi toes off his shoes and joins Zhenya on the couch, sitting carefully to avoid jostling him. 

"Hey, Tema," Zhenya says, voice slurring at the edges. Artemi winces. 

"Hey," he offers. Zhenya smiles, but it's weak. "You okay?"

"My fucking knee is sprained," Zhenya says. He leans his head back against the back of the couch, eyes closing. "Stay young, huh?"

"You're not that much older than me." 

"Whatever you say, kid," Zhenya huffs. Artemi flicks Zhenya's bicep, afraid of doing anything more. Sid comes back with a plate full of sandwiches and sets them on Zhenya's lap. He goes back to the kitchen and returns with another one. Artemi's stomach grumbles. He hasn't grown in a few years, but the hunger has never left. 

"Eat," Sid says firmly. When Zhenya doesn't open his eyes, he tugs gently on Zhenya's hair. "Eat. The painkillers will kill your stomach if you don't."

"Not my mother," Zhenya says in Russian. Sid replies in his own bad Russian with a surprisingly disgusting insult about Zhenya's mother. 

"Thought you nice," Artemi says. He hasn't worked up to long sentences, not outside his tutoring sessions, but Sid doesn't seem to need them. He's already gone through this once, Artemi thinks. He can't imagine how hard the process was the first time. 

"Geno's a baby when he's hurt," Sid says, grabbing a sandwich off the second plate. "Someone's got to take care of him."

They eat their lunch in the silence of the living room. Zhenya barely touches his own food, even with Sid's prodding, and eventually Sid and Artemi help him hobble toward the guest room on the first floor. Artemi spends a moment in the doorway, sick to his stomach as he watches Sid get Zhenya settled into the bed. 

"Do much?" Artemi asks. He knows as soon as the words have left that they're not the right ones, but Sid just nods. 

"We have a routine," he says. He huffs out a humorless laugh and rubs a hand over his face. "Christ, I don't know if he can take much more."

"He Zhenya," Artemi says, because there isn't anything else to say. Zhenya is passion and strength and wide grins that light up an entire room. He's hockey. 

"Yeah," Sid says. "He's Geno. I'm going to go home and grab a nap. I'll pick you up before the game." Artemi sees him to the door and climbs the stairs to his room. The bright excitement he'd felt for the game in the morning has faded into exhaustion. 

\---

They play like shit. Artemi skates as hard as he can, but every time he gets the puck it seems to run straight from his stick. He can't connect with Fehr, hasn't really been able to since the season started. Bishop looms giant in the net, completely shutting him down. 

During intermission, Artemi sits in his stall, hands balled into fists and teeth clenched. He feels the pressure of everyone's expectations heavy on his shoulders. The NHL hadn't drafted him. Whatever the Penguins had seen in him hadn't been enough for the draft and he isn't doing enough to endear himself to the people who had chosen him. The team gives him a wide berth and Artemi feels stupid and slow and useless. 

He desperately, desperately wishes for Zhenya. 

Instead, he gets Sid. Sid sits next to him, jaw squared and eyes hard, and Artemi braces himself for a rant. But Sid just grabs the whiteboard and draws out a few plays silently, his lines jerky and stiff but readable. 

"There's two periods left," Sid says. "Get out of your head and get in the game. When Geno's out, we all have to step up." Artemi's stomach twists. He's _trying_. He's trying so fucking hard. "We can do this."

They get lucky in the second, which has been the story of their last couple of months. Flower catches a shot off Boyle's stick and launches it toward Artemi. Artemi kicks it forward, ducking around Hedman and pushing himself to go faster. It's the end of his shift and his lungs are burning, but he manages to get the puck.

It's all open ice between him and Bishop. He can hear the rush of skates on the ice behind him, can hear the Pens fans screaming. He shoots high blocker side and Bishop swats it away, but Artemi's quick enough to pick up the rebound and sneak it in just under the glove. 

Bones crushes Artemi to his chest and Tanger thumps him hard on the helmet, but it still doesn't feel like enough. There's more he has to do. When he gets back onto the bench, Sid gives him a smile and a nod. 

They eke out a win in the end. Artemi feels drained, his legs aching and his shoulder going purple blue where he'd gotten whacked with the flat of a stick. The locker room is mostly quiet as the guys change out of their gear. Practice is going to be hell and they all know it. They're better than this, but Artemi doesn't know how to help make them the team they can be. 

Sid drives them home. He's a cautious driver, so different from Zhenya. Zhenya drives like he's home in Russia, but Sid stops for a full beat at every stop sign and goes no faster than the speed limits posted on the side of the road. Artemi wants to hit him for it. 

Zhenya's propped up on the couch when Artemi gets inside, Sid following after him like he belongs there too. Zhenya grins at them both, waving them over to give congratulatory noogies. Sid laughs and flops onto the couch, stretching his legs out until his feet are pushing against Geno's good thigh. 

"Good goal, Tema," Zhenya says. He pats the other side of the couch, movements still slow and a little loose and Artemi goes. "Mine are better, but you did what you could."

"Then get your ass back on the ice," Artemi says. Zhenya laughs. "We suck without you."

"I know," Zhenya says. He pats Sid's leg, even though Sid clearly has no idea what they're saying. It's nice to be on the other side of that particular problem for a change. 

"You guys are dicks," Sid says. 

"Very sad for you," Zhenya says in English. He pats Sid's leg again. They're all so close, squished up on Zhenya's stupid big couch even though they don't have to be. "Come to Russian house, expect not hear Russian."

" _Dicks_ ," Sid repeats in his own awful Russian. 

\---

Zhenya is out for the next few games. They play hard, but his absence is felt. Reporters ask Artemi about his numbers, fawn over his play, ask if he thinks he'll be the next Malkin. He's offended on both their behalfs. He's finally playing well enough, he can see he's playing well, but Zhenya is Zhenya and no one can replace him. 

"They do it to me, too," Sid says when the locker room is clear. His face is pinched, his jaw clenched. "Geno's- He'll be back soon, and they'll talk shit about his play until he proves them wrong _again_ , and it'll blow over." Artemi nods. He still doesn't understand everything, still loses some of the words to Sid's accent, but he gets it. He nods again and Sid sighs, clapping Artemi on the shoulder. 

Sid drives him home, which has become a routine all on its own, and leaves without coming inside. He was right about Zhenya being a baby about being injured, but he's got the luxury of leaving when he feels like it. Artemi is still too new, still depends too much on Zhenya, to say anything about it. 

Zhenya's on the couch, his usual place these days, phone in one hand and a pad of paper balanced on his lap. The pink and green cloth ice pack- apparently a gift from James Neal years ago- is balanced on his knee. The trainers already started working on it, putting Zhenya through exercises that look more painful than anything else, but Artemi's ridden that boat before. If you don't use it, you make it worse. No matter how much it hurts. 

"What are you doing?" Artemi asks, leaning over the back of the couch to see down onto the pad. He rubs his still sweaty face against Zhenya's head when Zhenya shields the page with his gigantic hand. 

"You're a disgusting child," Zhenya says. He gets a hand into Artemi's hair and yanks a little, shaking him back and forth. "I should have made you stay with Duper."

"You'd be bored without me to boss around," Artemi says. He wriggles and twists until he's halfway over the back of the couch, Zhenya's shoulder digging into his stomach, and steals the pad of paper. It is, unsurprisingly, Penguins branded. He would bet his sign-on bonus Sid had bought it. "My stats?"

"I made a bet with Sanja," Zhenya says. He swats impatiently at Artemi's hip, which is pressed uncomfortably against his neck, until Artemi slithers back down to the floor. "I told him you're going to get the Calder Cup. Keep up the tradition."

It hits hard. Zhenya has too much faith in him. 

"I'm not you," Artemi says. He sits next to Zhenya and adjusts the ice pack. Water sloshes inside it and it's gone a little warm. He'll fill it back up when he goes to the kitchen for his before bed snack. 

"No one can be me," Zhenya says with a grin. "This much greatness only comes once in a lifetime."

"I think I'll take you up on staying with Duper," Artemi says. He flips through the pages, ignoring Zhenya's feigned sighs of hurt. His stats are all there, along with McDavid's and a few other rookies. On a later page, Zhenya's written out his own rookie stats next to Sid's and Ovechkin's. "Do I at least get a cut of your winnings?"

"Get the Calder Cup, get a bonus from the team. You don't need my paltry bet money."

"What are you going to do with it?" Artemi asks, handing the notebook back. "Buy another ugly statue? Build an addition onto the back? I almost don't get lost anymore. You have to step it up."

"Worst brat," Zhenya says in English. Artemi groans. "Worst brat, I'm take you into home, feed you, not let team make fun of dumb hair. What I get? Nothing. Rude."

"Fuck you," Artemi says back, also in English. That, at least, he's got down.

Artemi takes the ice pack into the kitchen to refill it. He eats the leftover rice pilaf from the fridge cold, standing over the sink. Sid's been trying to get him to go to the juice place on the way to the practice rink after games and he's going to win eventually. Artemi is going to enjoy real food while he can. 

Zhenya hisses when Artemi puts the ice pack back on his knee. It's red, the old surgery scar raised and pink, but it doesn't look swollen. Baby steps, Artemi thinks. 

\---

Artemi's Dedushka calls once a week. He's taken a shine to Zhenya, which is surprising to no one, but thinks Sid is overrated. Artemi prickles every time Dedushka suggests that Sid's anything less than what he is- the best. Zhenya always leaves the room then, too hot headed and protective of Sid to be polite. 

"He's family," Zhenya says after one call. "Family wants you to be the star, will always think you're the best. It's how it goes."

"Your family does this, too?" Artemi asks. He's met and been subsequently coddled by Zhenya's parents. Natalia had spent an eon scolding Zhenya about not feeding him properly, a conversation that had been an exercise in Artemi not giggling like a child at Zhenya's sad, hangdog face. 

"I _am_ the best," Zhenya says, puffing out his chest. Really, Artemi should have seen that one coming. "They like Sid. He helped me out my first year. Plus, they've met him. It's hard to dislike him once you've met him." It's true. He's weird and doesn't really hold back on saying what he thinks, but he's charming in his own way. 

Artemi just hopes Dedushka sees it that way too when he eventually comes to visit. Zhenya isn't the only one on the team who's protective of Sid, even if he is, by far, the worst about it. They're halfway through the season, and Artemi thinks maybe, maybe, this place can be home.

\---

Sid is a lightweight. Artemi shouldn't be surprised, but he is. Zhenya gives him a knowing look and shakes his head. He's been off the painkillers for a few days, but he's still taking one drink for every two Artemi has. Artemi hasn't been properly drunk in too long and the smooth, high grade vodka Zhenya pulled out is going straight to his head. He knows it's a stereotype, knows Sid thinks it's hilarious, but he really, really doesn't care.

"Both you awful," Artemi says when Sid bumps into him rounding the pool table. Sid laughs, his cheeks pink and his temples just a little shiny with sweat. He's- Artemi wants to say pretty, what with his thick lips and high cheekbones, but it doesn't feel like the right word. 

"You're just mad I'm winning," Sid says. He bends over the table to line up his shot, tipping just a little bit sideways, and completely misses the cue ball on his shot. Artemi doesn't say anything. Zhenya's already on it. 

"Yes, Sid," he says, adjusting his leg on the pillow it's propped on. "You look like real winner."

"Fuck you," Sid throws back. He graciously steps back without trying to shoot again, and Artemi sinks the six into the corner pocket. He's gotten better at pool since moving in with Zhenya. The next time he goes home, he's going to run all of his friends out of their cash. "And fuck you, too."

"Bad at lose," Artemi says. He taps the four ball with the cue, but it bounces off the pocket without going in. Sid gives him a smug smile and bends back over the table. Artemi takes another shot. He's tipsy enough to let himself stare at Sid's ass. He's heard all the jokes, made some himself, but it really is amazing. 

Artemi hasn't gotten laid since coming to Pittsburgh. At first, he had been worried about trying to pick up in an unfamiliar language, then he'd been too busy with training and games, and since Zhenya's injury he's been more nursemaid than guest. That, he thinks as he catches the smooth slide of Sid's hand down the length of his stick, is what's going on here. 

Artemi wins that round by the skin of his teeth. Sid gives him shit for it, which only makes sense in Sid's head, wrapping an arm around Artemi's shoulders and grinding his knuckles into Artemi's scalp. It hurts, but Sid is warm and smells a little like sweat and the last of his cologne. Artemi pinches his stomach and escapes to Zhenya's side.

"You want him," Zhenya says. Artemi looks over at Sid anxiously, but for as much as Sid's gotten better at Russian insults, he still doesn't understand them much. Plus, he's involved in some bizarre staring contest with one of Geno's trophies. 

"I want more goals, too," Artemi says. Zhenya laughs, but it's not unkind.

"Try," he says. He motions toward Sid with a crutch. "See what he does."

"Yeah, that sounds like a great plan." Artemi pours himself another drink and takes it in one gulp. He shakes his head when he's done, his curls bouncing against his forehead in a way that makes his scalp feel weird. He needs a haircut badly, but he doesn't want to take the time to find a barber. 

"Are you afraid, Tema?" Zhenya taunts. Artemi scowls at him, but Zhenya's grin just gets wider. "It's just me and Sid here. What's the worst that can happen?"

"You've seen Sid fight, right?" Artemi asks. It's not the most impressive thing in the world, but he's as solid as a tree. He doesn't think sober Sid would hit him, but drunk Sid is a new creature he hasn't had time to study. 

"What are you guys talking about?" Sid asks. He totters over, his socks sliding on the hardwood floor. Zhenya clucks his tongue and moves his injured leg out of range. 

"Go on," Zhenya says. Artemi shakes his head again. 

"Make…" Artemi searches for the word, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. Understanding English is so much easier than speaking it. "Change money. You lose again."

"Bring it, Cupcake," Sid says gleefully. Artemi cringes at the nickname. He's heard worse, and at least he isn't _Flower_ , but he'd hoped he'd get something more… masculine. 

Zhenya makes put-upon sighs for the rest of the night as Sid and Artemi play, shaking his head every time Artemi yells at him to knock it off. Artemi doesn't deny that he'd like to take Sid on a test drive, but he really isn't that stupid. Sid is his captain and maybe his friend. His dick isn't going to screw that up. 

In the end, Artemi has to help both Sid and Zhenya get into bed. Sid leans heavily on him, feet clumsy enough on the stairs that Artemi genuinely worries that both of them are going to topple straight down and break their necks. When they get to the guest room, Sid strips off his shirt and fumbles with his jeans. Artemi stays long enough to make sure he lands on the bed instead of the floor before going back downstairs for his other charge. 

Zhenya's still staying in the downstairs guest room. Artemi walks behind him as Zhenya hobbles toward it only half using his crutches, Artemi's hands carefully resting on Zhenya's hips. He helps Zhenya take his jeans off, tugging on the hems gently when Zhenya sits heavily on the bed. They're all going to have hangovers in the morning and Artemi's already dreading it. 

"Still think you should have gone for Sid," Zhenya mumbles around a yawn. Artemi rolls his eyes. 

"Are you my mother?" He asks. Zhenya snorts. He grabs Artemi by the wrists and hauls him in. 

"Look," Zhenya says before kissing Artemi quick and easy. His lips are irreparably chapped and his breath both smells and tastes like vodka, but it really has been too long since Artemi's seen any action outside of his own hand. "Not that hard."

"Go to sleep," Artemi says. Zhenya sighs but flops back onto the mattress. He's snoring by time Artemi gently shuts the door behind himself. 

Artemi goes to his own room, just down the hall from Sid, and jerks off. If he thinks about the stretch of Sid's jeans over his ass, about the rough catch of Zhenya's lips against his own, well. It's only to be expected. 

\---

Zhenya's first game back is amazing. The crowd absolutely roars for him when his name is announced, the arena shaking under the weight of their stamping feet. He does a quick turn around the ice, stick and head held high, and comes back to the bench grinning widely. There's pressure to make it a good game, for Zhenya to look like he really is ready to be back, but Artemi doesn't have the time or excess mental space to worry about it.

Not that he should. Zhenya is on fire, his joy at being back with the team where he belongs translating directly into ferocious play that leaves the team breathless. Artemi gets an assist on Tanger's wickedly sharp slap shot in the second, scores a goal in the third that ends up with him slammed to the boards by an angry Hurricane defenseman, and nets a second assist on Zhenya's powerplay goal. 

Zhenya crushes him in a nearly suffocating hug, shouting in his ear. Artemi laughs, taking the helmet ruffling from Tanger and the fist bump from Sid. He's played without Zhenya more than he's played with him this season, but this feels right. Better. Zhenya and Sid _are_ the Penguins. This is how it's supposed to be. 

They win 5-1. Zhenya gets first star of the night, and when he goes back out onto the ice the crowd is somehow even louder than they'd been before, cheering his name and shaking the building. 

The team goes out to a bar after, loud and energetic and high off the victory. Artemi ends up smashed between Olli and Kuni at a table, sweating and a little uncomfortable. He still can't string sentences together worth a shit, but Olli agrees with him about English being a stupid language and Kuni is patient every time Artemi speaks to him. 

Artemi drinks until he's dizzy. Sully had moved him up to the second line two weeks ago, stuck him in with Kuni and Bones, who had stepped up to take Zhenya's place. They had clicked, had done good things on the ice, but Zhenya- Zhenya had made it perfect. They had been a unit, a force. Artemi thinks that maybe with Zhenya as his center, he might actually at least get that nomination for the Calder. 

He shouts this to Zhenya across the aisle, leaning over Olli to make sure he's heard over the thud of bass and the voices of too many people. Zhenya throws his head back and laughs loud enough to get dirty looks. 

"You two are weird," Olli says, his voice soft and fuzzy. He's gone red all over in big, blotchy patches, his hair slicked away from his face like he's just come off the ice. 

"You weird," Artemi says and nearly knocks them both onto the floor when he tries to sit up. A big hand catches him around the bicep, pulling him up onto unsteady feet. Sid sighs at him, entirely too sober, and shakes his head. 

"Time for bed," Sid says. Olli grins smugly, even as he knocks his glass over, beer sloshing across the table and onto the floor. Tanger, across from them, jerks backward as he gets a lapful. Artemi laughs until his stomach aches, leaning heavily into Sid. "See you guys later."

Sid also collects Zhenya, dragging both of them bodily from the bar. Artemi can't stop laughing. Sid's got a double armful of Russians and is staggering under their combined weight, but it doesn't faze him at all. Artemi rests his head on Sid's shoulder and shuffles along, trusting Sid to catch him if he trips. 

The cab ride is fuzzy. Mostly Artemi remembers leaning against the cold glass of the window, watching the lights of the city go by, still in awe of the bridges half a year after seeing them for the first time. Pittsburgh is beautiful in its own way, and Artemi's grown a fond spot for it in his heart. 

Sid helps them inside, depositing them both on the couch. He fetches them water and aspirin, watches them take it with his arms crossed and his eyebrows raised. Artemi wants to drag him down onto the couch with them, wants the three of them to curl up together and talk about the beauty of a game they just played, but he settles on sprawling across Zhenya's lap instead. This, too, is good. 

"So drunk, Tema," Zhenya says fondly. Artemi gives him the finger. 

"You guys are going to be so hungover," Sid says with a sigh. 

"Breakfast?" Artemi asks. The word comes out funny, but Sid just rolls his eyes. "One star."

"Geno was the first star," Sid says. He's still got his grumpy, bitchy face on, but the pride in his voice is clear. "He gets breakfast."

"Mean," Artemi says. 

"Sid likes me best," Zhenya croons, the rolling sounds of Russian so much easier to pick apart than the ugly, harsh consonants of English. Sid rolls his eyes again. 

"Both suck," Sid replies in heavily accented Russian. 

Sid leaves them there without the promise of breakfast, but Artemi knows he'll show up too early in the morning to make them eggs and bacon. He's too proud of them not to. 

For a long while they stay there, Zhenya leaned back against the cushions and Artemi sprawled over his lap. It's too hot and Zhenya's kneecaps are digging into Artemi's back uncomfortably, but it's nice. Good. 

"Up," Zhenya says when Artemi starts to drift off. "You might be young enough to sleep on the couch all night, but I'm not."

"Carry me," Artemi whines. Zhenya snorts. He bounces his knees until Artemi reluctantly rolls onto the floor. 

There's no way he's climbing the stairs. He wanders toward the guest room Zhenya's been staying in, pausing just long enough at the door to strip down to his boxers. His mouth is going to be awful in the morning, but he doubts Zhenya will bring his toothbrush downstairs for him. He collapses face first into the mattress, the strong smell of Zhenya's cologne surrounding him instantly. 

"Move," Zhenya says from the doorway. Artemi turns his head, pressing his cheek into the cool pillows. Zhenya stumbles as he steps out of his jeans, shirt already gone. 

"I was here first," Artemi says, even as he scoots out from the center of the bed. The mattress shakes when Zhenya falls onto it, groaning under their combined weight. 

"Good game tonight, Tema," Zhenya says when they've settled. His eyes are bright and his lips are wet and Artemi doesn't think. He just leans in and presses his mouth to Zhenya's. Zhenya laughs and pulls him in closer. 

It's sloppy and too wet, but Artemi really doesn't care. Zhenya's hot all along his front, all smooth skin and hard muscle. Artemi squirms closer to him, hands sliding over Zhenya's shoulder and back and hip. When Zhenya pulls away, it's only to roll them over. He's heavy, his whole weight crushing Artemi into the mattress, but it's good. It's a perfect end to the night. 

They rub off on each other, uncoordinated and messy, and Artemi's breathless and dizzy when it's over. Zhenya pulls him in closer after, sticky and sweaty, and Artemi passes out.

\---

The morning is hell. Artemi wakes up to the sound of the front door crashing open. His mouth is fuzzy and gross and his head pounds with every beat of his heart. He groans into Zhenya's shoulder, but even that hurts. Zhenya snores loudly at him and doesn't move. 

It takes a lot of effort to get out of bed. Artemi wiggles out from under Zhenya's arm and winces when his boxers pull at his public hair. Taking them off is going to be awful. He stumbles out into the front room, half heartedly looking for his pants. Either Sid has shown up to make the breakfast he never promised, or there's a really clumsy burglar raiding the fridge. 

For a moment, Artemi thinks he'll be able to sneak upstairs fast enough to change. But Sid's as eagle eyed off the ice as he is on it and he hones in on Artemi immediately. He does something complicated with his face before turning away, back toward the kitchen where the bitter smell of coffee is already rising up. 

"Morning," Artemi croaks. 

"Hey," Sid says, head down as he rifles through the Giant Eagle bag on the counter. "Breakfast'll be ready in a half hour."

"Thank you." Artemi drags himself upstairs and brushes his teeth until his mouth doesn't taste like something died in it 

He takes a hot shower and swallows down more aspirin. He's got a red patch on his throat that's probably beard burn and a dark, wide bruise on his hip from a fall during the game. He looks like a mess, even when he pulls on a Pens hoodie and a pair of shorts. 

The smell of bacon hits him as soon as he steps out of the bathroom and his stomach grumbles. His headache is starting to fade, but he probably won't be up for much but sitting on the couch for the rest of the day. 

Zhenya's sitting at the counter, mug of coffee cradled in his hands, head hung low over it. He looks as miserable as Artemi feels. Artemi grabs his own mug and settles in next to him. He thinks it should be weird, that he should be uncomfortable being so close to Zhenya after last night, but it feels just the same as it has every morning. Zhenya knocks their knees together lazily before going back to his usual hangover slump. 

Sid's back is to them as he cooks. He's quiet, the soft sounds of bacon sizzling and the scrape of the spatula against the pan the only sounds in the kitchen. He's not stupid and Artemi had seen what he'd looked like before he'd showered. This, Artemi thinks, is why he hadn't made a move on Sid when he'd had the chance. Zhenya is easy. Sid is not. 

Sid slides their plates across the counter to them. Artemi digs in immediately, the grease of the bacon doing more to settle his stomach than anything else. Zhenya picks more leisurely at his, one hand still cradling his coffee in close, like someone might take it from him. They've had a dozen mornings like this, and everything is familiar except for the way that Sid hasn't joined them with his own plate. 

"Sit," Zhenya mumbles around a mouthful of eggs. 

"I'm actually going to head out," Sid says. He scrubs a hand over the back of his hair, not quite looking at them. "I've got errands to run. Just wanted to make sure you guys were still alive in here."

"Sit," Zhenya says again. "You come over and make breakfast. Eat. Errands wait."

Artemi pushes his eggs around his plate, staring at them so he doesn't have to watch the stubborn-off happening beside him. He wonders if Sid will stop coming over, if their joint breakfasts and late night games will end. He pushes his plate away and slumps into his hoodie. He feels young and stupid. Maybe he is. 

"I-" Sid blows out a breath and takes a piece of bacon from the cooling rack. He jams it in his mouth, grabs a piece of toast, and walks back toward the living room. He puts his shoes back on, toast hanging from his mouth. "I'll see you guys at practice tomorrow." He leaves before they can say anything. 

"Do it," Artemi says as the sound of Sid's truck pulling out of the driveway filters into the kitchen. "See what he does."

Zhenya is silent. 

\---

There is no time to wallow. They practice, they play. Whatever is going on in Sid's head stays away from the rink and Artemi does his best to follow his example. The team notices something is wrong, but no one says anything. Olli spends a lot of time on the road with Artemi, teaching him a card game that he played in school. Sid doesn't come for breakfasts, doesn't follow them home and refuse to leave. 

At night, Artemi crawls into bed with Zhenya, kisses him and learns the shape of his body by feel. They don't fall asleep together often and they don't talk about it at all. For the first time in months, Artemi feels lost. New. He relies on Zhenya for everything, but maybe he had started to lean too heavily on Sid, too. 

The team battles their way viciously to the second wild card spot. They've all got something to prove and none of them want to wait any longer. Artemi's name comes up often as his points begin to add up into something substantial. He breaks team records and smiles for the camera when the reporters ask him about it. Zhenya still thinks he can win the Calder. 

A month after Sid's abrupt departure from their lives, Artemi goes down hard against the Rangers. Eric Staal checks him and he loses his footing. He breaks his fall with his hand, pain shooting up into his elbow and across his shoulders. It's a stupid mistake, something they train out of children, but Artemi hadn't been paying enough attention, hadn't thought to twist away from the impact. 

He goes down the tunnel clutching his arm to his chest, anger boiling just under his skin. His wrist is sprained. It won't take long to heal, but he'll be benched for at least two weeks. The playoff race hasn't started, not yet, but the Rangers have been nipping at their heels for the past two months and Artemi can't do anything to help clinch their spot. 

Artemi watches the rest of the game from the trainers' room, wrist in an air cast and the low level buzz of painkillers making his head fuzzy. They lose, 3-1. Artemi can't help feeling it's his fault. 

\---

"Keep the ice on," Zhenya says, placing the ugly ice pack back on Artemi's frozen wrist. It's been two days and Artemi is going to throw Zhenya out of his own house soon. 

"It's just a sprain," he snaps. "Stop treating me like I broke my leg." Zhenya's eyes narrow. Artemi sighs. "You want to be helpful? Lend me your left hand." 

"So young," Zhenya says wistfully, already sinking down onto the couch and settling back against the armrest. Artemi tosses the ice pack onto the coffee table and turns, scooting back until he's between Zhenya's thighs. Zhenya smells like the god awful ointment he's been ordered to put on his knee, but Artemi can overlook that. "I remember when all I wanted to do was eat and get laid."

"That's still all you want to do," Artemi says. Zhenya laughs as he shoves his hand into Artemi's basketball shorts, his warm breath tickling at the back of Artemi's neck. 

"So rude to your elders," Zhenya says, biting at the curve of Artemi's shoulder. Artemi opens his mouth to say- something, but Zhenya curls his fingers around his cock and all thought flees from his mind.

He supposes he shouldn't be surprised that Sid chooses then to invite himself back over. 

"Shit, sorry," Sid says from the front hall, already backing away. He's got a bag of takeout from the Polish restaurant in the city in one hand and he fumbles it spectacularly. Artemi jerks, his head crashing into Zhenya's chin. He's only saved from toppling to the floor by Zhenya's arm wrapped tight around his waist. "I'll just leave this here. Sorry."

"Sid-" Artemi scrambles off the couch, banging his shin against the coffee table. He swears. The pain on top of the embarrassment, on top of the anger that this is happening _again_ , at least kills his boner. 

"Sit," Zhenya says. His voice is dark and low, nothing like Artemi's heard before. He and Sid both freeze. Zhenya pushes on Artemi's shoulder until he goes down. "Sid, in here."

"I don't-"

"In here," Zhenya says again, tone sharp and commanding. Sid shuffles into the room and sits in the arm chair next to the couch. It feels like he's still kilometers away. "Talk." Zhenya crosses his arms over his chest. He's still standing, looming over them like one of the guardians at the door. "You have problem?"

"No," Sid says quickly. Artemi flinches. Zhenya says nothing. "I just- wanted to give you guys some space. I didn't know you were a thing or whatever." Sid stares at the ice pack on the coffee table, fingers tapping against his knee. Artemi wants to reach out and stop them. It's something he's done a hundred times, but he doesn't know if he's allowed to anymore. 

"Why you stop coming?" Artemi asks. He feels naked in just his shorts, skin suddenly cold without the warmth of Zhenya beside him. "Thought we friends?" It sounds stupid in his head and even stupider out loud, the words fumbling and childish. For as much shit as Zhenya gives him for being young, Artemi's a grown man. He doesn't feel much like it right now. 

"We are," Sid says. He closes his eyes and sinks back into the chair. Zhenya stays silent, eyes flicking between them. Artemi's grown close to both of them over the past few months, but Zhenya had told him that Sid had been his best friend in Pittsburgh for a long time. Whatever abandonment Artemi feels, Zhenya has to feel tenfold. "I just-" Sid shrugs. "I know how it goes when people get together, you know? Eventually they stop wanting to hang out and I just figured I'd make that step a little easier."

"Is he this stupid all the time, or just right now?" Artemi asks. Zhenya sighs. 

"All the time," he replies. He squats in front of Sid, hands gripping the armrests for stability. Their knees knock together and Sid finally opens his eyes. "We not want you to go away. You make that choice. Make Tema sad. He pine for you."

"Fuck you," Artemi says in English. It's still his favorite phrase, as inelegant as it is. Zhenya ignores him. 

"I don't want to be a third wheel," Sid says quietly. Artemi doesn’t really understand the phrase, but he thinks he gets the gist. 

"Not," he says. 

"Bullshit. I ever have problem tell you go away when I don't want you?" Zhenya asks. Sid shrugs. He's hunched so far into himself that it looks like the chair is eating him. "Why you really go away?"

Artemi is sure that the only thing keeping Sid in place is Zhenya's body blocking him in. He shifts uncomfortably, nervous twitches that Artemi can't help watching. He feels like he's intruding on them, like he's not part of the wedge that's come between them and made things hectic and messy. Artemi inches to the edge of the couch, leaning against the armrest. If he wanted to, if he thought it would help, he could reach out and touch Sid's shoulder, Zhenya's back. He doesn't. 

"Sid," he says instead. Sid glances over at him. He's pale, like he's afraid of them. Artemi's chest aches. "You meant for here."

"It's not the same, and you guys know it-"

"Why you make everything so hard?" Zhenya asks, cutting Sid off neatly. He slides a hand from the armrest to wrap it around the back of Sid's neck. Sid sits very, very still. "You mad we sleep together? You mad you see? You sad? Why you not just say what's in stupid Crosby head?" He shakes Sid a little, an action so crushingly familiar that Artemi can almost forget the mess. 

"Because I don't want to fuck things up," Sid says in a rush. 

"Too late," Artemi says. It's maybe cruel, and Sid flinches under Zhenya's hand. 

"Why you think you fuck things up?" Zhenya asks gently, even as he throws a dirty look over his shoulder at Artemi. Artemi throws his hands up. _He's_ not the one refusing to talk. 

"I thought we had a good thing going," Sid mumbles. "The three of us. I really liked hanging out and then you were having sex or doing whatever and I-" Sid shrugs again. Zhenya sighs. "I didn't want to get in the way. So." 

Slowly, carefully, Zhenya leans in until Artemi can't see Sid's face anymore. Artemi gnaws on his lip and rubs at the sore ache of his wrist, watching the breadth of Zhenya's back like it can tell him what's going on. When Zhenya sits back on his heels, Sid's head snaps up, eyes locking on Artemi's. They're wide and startled. Pinkness crawls down Sid's cheeks to his throat. 

"You- Artemi's _right there_ ," Sid says. His mouth twists unhappily and Artemi's eyes catch on it. His lips are damp and red and it's entirely unfair that for all the times Sid has understood them, that he thinks so little of himself, this is the thing he doesn't get. "What are you-"

"Move head out of way when do next," Artemi says, leaning farther over the edge of the arm rest. He's careful as he sets his injured arm on Zhenya's back, fingers curling in Zhenya's soft t-shirt. "Want see."

"What?" Sid asks. 

"I'm greedy," Zhenya says. He leans back into Artemi's hand and Artemi holds his breath. This could go really, really well or really shitty. He thinks it's leaning more heavily toward the former, but he refuses to jinx it. "One boy not enough for me. Need two." Artemi feels like he should probably be offended, but well. It's not like he's got a high ground to take. "Maybe you greedy, too? 

"Are you-" Sid looks at Artemi again, his eyebrows drawn together. "What?"

Artemi leans in and very carefully kisses the corner of Sid's mouth. It's not the same as it had been with Zhenya, easy and almost thoughtless. This feels fragile, like Sid might find a way to escape and not return this time. Artemi pulls back and smiles as best he can. 

"Share," he says. Zhenya's warm under Artemi's palm and Sid still looks a little shellshocked, but he isn't making a move to leave. "Is three, yes? Good?"

"You guys want me to…" Sid makes some sort of bizarre gesture that Artemi doesn't bother trying to interpret. "Like a- like a threesome? Because I don't know- I don't- Casual stuff isn't really-" Sid breaks off, apparently at a loss for words. 

"Not casual," Zhenya says softly. "Not for me. Don't know for Tema, just know he want you, too."

"Casual?" Artemi asks. Zhenya repeats it in Russian and Artemi shakes his head. "Not want little bit. Maybe is much want. Too much?" Not for the first time, Artemi wishes he could just push his thoughts into Sid's head, make him understand without words. 

"Can I think about it?" Sid asks. Zhenya immediately backs away and Artemi hisses as it jostles his wrist. 

"You not want, can just say," Zhenya says, even as he starts fussing with the ice pack again. It's half warm and drips onto Artemi's shorts, making him shiver. His wrist throbs. Zhenya's going to make him put the stupid air cast back on. Artemi thinks about that instead of anything else. It's easier. "Don't have to say yes." 

"I'm not… I'm not saying no. I just need to think about it," Sid says. Artemi stares at the stripes on the ice pack and nods. Zhenya's hand is warm on his knee, his fingertips digging in just a little too hard to be comfortable. 

"Do," Artemi says. "Don't stay gone this time, please. We miss." He smiles weakly, still staring at his own wrist. He wishes, for a moment, for the easiness of the beginning of the season. 

"I won't," Sid says. He stands, hand jammed into his pockets. "I, uh, brought you guys dinner. It's probably cold now, but." He shrugs and pushes the bag toward them with his foot. Even with all this, the sight of his socks makes a stupid, weak tingle of fondness flutter in Artemi's chest. "I have plans with Flower tonight, but I'll see you guys soon."

He makes his escape quickly, the sound of the front door slamming echoing through the front hall. Artemi knocks the ice pack, now almost entirely useless anyway, to the ground in a fit of childish rebellion.

"If you want him to yourself," Artemi says, shrugging. Zhenya tuts and stands, his knees creaking. "Might make things easier."

"You've been here long enough to know that nothing with Sid is easy," Zhenya says. He gathers up the ice pack and the take-out and jerks his head toward the kitchen. "Come on. You should eat with the painkillers."

"You're as bad as he is," Artemi grumbles. Still, he follows Zhenya into the kitchen and falls easily on the perogies when they're reheated. 

Zhenya crawls into bed with him later and finishes what he'd started on the couch. They curl up together in Artemi's bed after, Artemi's wrist back in its aircast and resting on Zhenya's chest. 

"If Sid says no," Zhenya says as Artemi's drifting off, "it doesn't change this. Not if you don't want it to."

Artemi's too tired to ask what, exactly, this is. 

\---

Sid doesn't come over, still, but he does hold true to his promise to not disappear. He hangs out with them during practice and takes them to lunch with Tanger or Flower acting as chaperones. Flower's eyes are sharp and his questions pointed, but Artemi's still able to avoid answering him. Zhenya isn't so lucky, but Artemi feels no pity for him. 

It's nice having Sid around again, even with the awkwardness that hovers around them. Sometimes Artemi catches him staring, his head cocked to the side and his mouth pursed, like he and Zhenya are an equation to be worked out. Artemi is careful to keep his hands to himself when Sid is around, even though Zhenya stubbornly refuses. Artemi thinks he's trying to make an unneeded point, but he doesn't ask. 

There's ten games left in the season and they're so, so close to going to the playoffs. Artemi works his wrist with Kadar every day and continues his Skype lessons at night. Three weeks after the Rangers game, Artemi's cleared to go back. 

The locker room is tense with energy. The guys who have been around since the last Cup win bleed a hunger that fuels them all. Mario visits more often, his silent presence a weight on all their shoulders. They want to win for him, want to win for Duper, who bowed out halfway through the season. Artemi doesn't know either one of them well, but the drive is infectious. 

On the plane to Toronto, Tanger steals the seat next to Artemi, shooing Zhenya off toward the card game in the back. Artemi eyes him suspiciously around his phone, but Tanger just pulls out a book and begins to read. 

The silence doesn't last long. 

"It's good to see you and Sid got over whatever," Tanger says. Artemi glances up from his game of Farm Heroes.

"Nothing to get over," he says. "Sid good friend."

"I know," Tanger says. He looks over his shoulder at the loud protest of Flower, who's apparently just been shot down. Sid pumps his fist in victory and Artemi can't help grinning. "Just saying. Not a lot of people are willing to let him be his own brand of weird. Not even team."

"They stupid," Artemi says. Tanger snorts and goes back to his book. That, apparently, is that. 

\---

They lock up the playoff spot in a game against Boston. It's a rough game, every last one of them fighting for the puck, for a shot at getting that much closer to the playoffs. Artemi gets called for high sticking in the second and sits fuming in the box, hands clenched tight in his gloves as he watches his team struggle to clear. Later, Sid goes in for tripping and his voice can be heard across the ice, calling it for the bullshit it is. 

The Boston crowd is as vicious as the team, booing every time Artemi gets the puck, chanting Flower's name mockingly after every goal that sinks home in their net. The slash that sends Olli out of the game goes uncalled. The team is furious on the bench, tension thick around them as they continue to play catch up. 

The game goes into overtime. Artemi forces himself to work harder, to be faster. He shakes off hits that leave him reeling, gnashing his teeth against his mouth guard between plays in an effort to keep himself from doing something stupid. The clock keeps winding down and they can't get anything together. Artemi's stomach is in knots when he's not on the ice. 

Bones sinks in a filthy, garbage goal with three seconds to go. 

The bench explodes. Artemi launches himself out onto the ice, tripping over the boards and nearly going face first into the ground. Someone grabs him around the arms and hauls him back up, dragging him toward the tight clutch of their teammates. Artemi's ears ache from their shouts, his throat aches from his own. They're going to the playoffs. 

They're going to the fucking playoffs. 

The locker room is a madhouse. Horny makes a show of passing off the warrior helmet to Bones, placing it on his head and mugging for the cameras that seem to always be present. Artemi hugs Flower at least six times, drunk on victory and too pleased to do anything else. Flower just laughs at him, wrapping his skinny arms around Artemi's chest and squeezing back. 

Artemi gets sidelined for an interview and he's in too good a mood to argue about it. Zhenya stands beside him, shirtless and grinning widely enough to bare his teeth. Reporters throw questions at him and he understands almost everything without Zhenya needing to translate. It's another victory. Smaller, but a victory all its own. 

"How do you feel about going to the playoffs your first year in the NHL?" Someone asks. 

"Feel good," Artemi says, his cheeks starting to hurt from how much he's been grinning. "Work hard. Keep work hard."

The team goes back to the hotel and splits into their rooms. There will be no party tonight, bus call is too early in the morning to risk the hangover, but Artemi already knows there will be something extravagant waiting for them in Pittsburgh. He strips down to his boxers and collapses on his bed, the aches and pains from the game finally catching up to him. 

Twenty minutes later, he rolls back out of bed to answer the knock on his door. He's not surprised that he's got company. Zhenya deserves at least a handjob for that pass in the second that had netted Artemi his thirtieth goal of the season and Artemi's still just keyed up enough to deliver. 

But when he opens the door, Zhenya's not alone. Sid's standing next to him, shuffling awkwardly in his hideous crocs. 

Zhenya blows past Artemi, falling onto his bed with a groan. His knee is wrapped, which Artemi _knows_ is a preventative measure, but it still makes a part of him want to hover like a grandmother. He has the fleeting thought that, should Sid get injured, he'll probably kill both of them before he's healed. 

"Hey," Sid says when he steps into the room. He closes the door gently behind him but doesn't move away from the wall. There's an angry red splotch high on his cheek from where he'd taken a stick to the face in the third period. 

"Hi," Artemi says. He thinks this means celebratory handjobs are off the schedule for the evening. He goes back to the bed, laying over top of Zhenya's back when Zhenya refuses to move out of the way. He sneaks a peek at the wrapping around Zhenya's knee, resisting the urge to cluck his tongue. He's not his mother. He won't do it. "Good game."

"It was a mess," Sid says, laughing a little. Artemi shrugs. He's not wrong. "I, ah, thought about it." 

Artemi curls his fingers in Zhenya's shirt, holding his breath. Sid's still across the room from them, which doesn't exactly bode well for whatever he's going to say next. Zhenya turns his head, and then they're both just staring. Waiting. Sid fidgets, eyes locked on the floor. Artemi's stomach knots itself up, the leftover adrenaline from the game turning sour. 

"How would it work?" Sid finally asks. "If I say yes?"

"Want game plan for relationship?" Zhenya asks. His voice is a bit wheezy, Artemi squashng him firmly into the mattress, but he still sounds amused. Sid gives him the finger. 

"I mean, like." Sid leans back against the wall, picking at his shirt. "If we do this, is it like a timeshare? Or is it… I don't know. It's been a long time since I've been with one person. I don't know what two would be like. And I don't know. At the end of the season you guys'll go back to Russia together and I'll be an ocean away and that... " He shrugs. 

"Russia big," Zhenya says. He wiggles until Artemi reluctantly rolls off of him. "Not like we going to same place."

"Can come," Artemi offers, even though he knows it's a lost cause. Sid loves Canada the same way Artemi and Zhenya love Russia. He wouldn't cast it aside for something so new. "We miss both ways."

"Come here," Zhenya demands, patting the space between them on the bed. They're lying horizontally across it, legs dangling off one side. Sid hesitates before toeing out of his shoes. He hovers at the edge before Artemi sighs and grabs his hand, yanking him forward. 

It takes some maneuvering to fit all three of them, and Zhenya hisses when one of them bang against his knee, which causes a flurry of worried apologies. In the end, Sid winds up smashed between them, Artemi hanging onto his waist to keep from falling off the edge of the mattress. Sid's warm and solid under Artemi's arm, his face so close that Artemi feels himself going cross-eyed as he tries to focus. 

"Need bigger bed," Zhenya grumbles. His fingers brush Artemi's stomach as he adjusts his grip on Sid. One wrong move and all of them are going down. "Sid's ass too big."

"Just right size," Artemi says. If he were more sure of things, he'd reach down and finally get his hand on it, but Sid still hasn't said one way or another. Instead he just grins. 

"I hate you both," Sid says. His breath is warm and smells like minty toothpaste. 

"Liar," Artemi says. Sid snorts. Artemi bumps their foreheads together, everything blurring except the darkness of Sid's eyes. "We do?"

"Yeah," Sid says softly. "I think so."

Carefully, Artemi tilts his head and brushes a kiss over Sid's mouth. Sid pulls him in closer, pressing their chests flush, and kisses him back. One of his hands cups the back of Artemi's head, his fingers tugging gently at Artemi's curls. 

Where Zhenya is messy and demanding with his kisses, confident, Sid is gentle and maybe sweet. His lips are soft where Zhenya's are perpetually chapped. Artemi closes his eyes and lets himself get lost in it, in learning the way Sid's mouth feels against his, in feeling the curious swipe of Sid's tongue against his own. He explores the strong, solid expanse of Sid's back, laughs when Sid groans when Artemi finally, _finally_ gets a handful of his glorious ass. 

"Share," Zhenya says, leaning over and pinching at their stomachs until Sid turns his head. Artemi watches them, laying his head onto the pillow. Sid's hand is still in his hair, fingers tightening on just this side of too much as Zhenya licks into his mouth. When they break apart, both of them are pink cheeked and grinning. 

"We need to sleep," Sid says, even as he pulls Artemi impossibly closer. Artemi wants to rub off on him, wants to get Sid underneath them and explore. "Bus call is at six."

"You old grandmother," Artemi says. He kisses the sweet line of Sid's throat, tucking his head under Sid's chin. Zhenya laughs. "We not sleep?" Artemi doesn't have the words to ask for what he wants, but he's still pleased when he rocks his hips forward and finds Sid half hard in his sweats. 

"Sleep," Sid says, voice wavering. Artemi peeks over his shoulder and sees Zhenya's sharp grin. "We can…. Not sleep when we get back to Pittsburgh."

"Pittsburgh is so far away," Artemi says in Russian. He doesn't think he's imagining Sid's shiver. "You already cockblocked me once. I should at least get to _see_ your dick."

"What makes you think you were getting laid tonight anyway?" Zhenya asks. Artemi ignores him. 

"I'm going to learn Russian over the summer," Sid says. "Then I'll know what bullshit you're saying about me."

"Not learn what we say in books," Zhenya says with a sleazy, dramatic leer. "Glad to teach though." Zhenya yelps when Sid shoves his ass back, knocking Zhenya to the floor easily. He hits the ground with an audible thump, the bed shaking. Sid grins at Artemi and gives him another soft, careful kiss. 

"We could go to Canada together," Sid whispers against Artemi's mouth. "Leave him by himself." Something in Artemi's chest loosens. Sid's willing to joke about this. He's getting there. 

"He whine forever," Artemi says. He laughs when Zhenya's head pops back up over the side of the mattress, his hair a riotous mess and his eyes narrowed. "Come for dinner?"

"Yeah, alright." Sid squeezes Artemi's hip before rolling over and shoving Zhenya out of the way. "Come on, Geno. Back to your room."

"I can sleep here," Zhenya says. Artemi bites back his derisive laugh. They all know that if Zhenya stays, there will be no sleep. Zhenya gives Artemi's hair a fond tug and wanders out after Sid.

Artemi sprawls out once they're gone, the familiar smell of Zhenya's cologne and Sid's shampoo lingering on the mattress with him, and lets himself have one fist pump for victory. They're going to the playoffs and Sid's going to be theirs. It's a fucking great night. 

\---

The last five games of the season fly by. Sully and Sid work them just as hard as they always have, refusing to let the team coast. Zhenya takes a slash that leaves his knuckles red for a week and has to sit out the last three games. He's angry but he still shows up in his suits and sits dutifully in the box with Mario. Artemi thinks, somewhat foolishly, that he can hear Zhenya cheering even down on the ice when the team scores. 

Sid starts having breakfast with them again. He won't stay the night, even on nights before off days, but he doesn't shy away when Artemi or Zhenya touch him. He also won't go to bed with them for not sleeping, but Zhenya sighs and explains that it's a Sid thing not a doubts thing. Artemi, somehow, isn't surprised. 

After they beat the Flyers at Wells Fargo, a game that is vicious and leaves Artemi with a split lip and a sore shoulder, Zhenya declares they're on vacation for four days. Sid clearly wants to argue, but Artemi kisses him and it's enough to distract him for at least a little while. 

The three of them explore the city with a rental car, hats pulled low over their faces. Zhenya takes them to the aviary, to the zoo. When Artemi pesters him, he reluctantly drives them to Station Square for the ducky tour. 

"Is this a date?" Sid asks skeptically from the backseat. Zhenya laughs. "What?" Artemi turns around in his seat and beams. He feels young and a little dizzy with happiness. Sid's cranky and Zhenya's laughing and Pittsburgh is all around them, ready to see what they do in the playoffs. 

Sid squirms once they're in the weird duck car thing, squashed between Artemi and Zhenya in the tiny seats. Artemi pinches his thigh hard enough that he yelps. He goes pink when a few heads turn toward them. 

"You make me fall in street," Artemi says. His arm dangles off the edge of the hideously yellow side of the boat and he thumps his hand against the metal. The city is busy all around them, the driver in front giving them commentary on everything they're passing. The speaker distorts his voice just enough that Artemi can't understand him, but Sid and Zhenya point out anything they think he'll be interested in. "Be still."

"You're not the one in the middle," Sid huffs, settling back against his seat. Artemi grins across him at Zhenya. 

"He could be," Zhenya says, laying his arm across the back of the seat behind Sid's shoulders. His fingers brush Artemi's neck. "You the one with dumb rules." Sid goes pinker, but refuses to rise to the bait. 

Artemi holds his breath when the car drives straight into the river, water splashing up high enough to make his arm wet. They float underneath one of the bridges and Artemi breathes out. 

\---

The day before their first game against the Rangers, Dedushka and Zhenya's parents fly into Pittsburgh. Artemi hovers at the gate with Zhenya, anxiety churning in his stomach. He's kept up his weekly calls, heard his Dedushka's voice many times over the year, but there's a tiny frisson of fear that he'll somehow know about Zhenya and Sid. 

As soon as Dedushka is through the gate, visibly tired and drooping, Artemi rushes toward him. He gathers him up in his arms, brushing a kiss over Dedushka's cheek. Artemi has missed him. Dedushka laughs and hugs him back. Beside them, Zhenya is sheepishly taking his mother's scolding for how skinny both he and Artemi have gotten, like there's anything they could have done about it. 

Artemi and Zhenya carry the bags to the car. Everyone is beat and clearly need naps, but Natalia and Vladimir stubbornly demand to check in on Sid before going back to Zhenya's house. Artemi steals a glance in the rear view mirror at Dedushka and feels something hot and tight in his chest when Dedushka's lips twist. 

Sid answers the door in shorts, a towel around his neck. He's sweating through his gray t-shirt, his face ruddy and splotchy and his hair slicked back. Artemi wants to pin him to something and lick him, never mind the entire horde of Russians on the doorstep. Sid grimaces in embarrassment, stepping out of the way to let everyone in. 

"Sorry," Sid says in his awkward, round Russian. "Didn't know visitors." He glares at Zhenya and Artemi before turning a smile back to Zhenya's parents. Natalia scoops him into her arms, apparently unbothered by how objectively gross he is. Sid hugs her back carefully. "Good to see."

"Mama, let him go," Zhenya whines. He always turns into a child when his parents are present and Artemi loves it. Natalia holds Sid at arms' length, looks him over, and shakes her head. "We always get skinny this time of year. If I eat any more than I already do, I won't be able to move."

"Then you don't move," Natalia says. Zhenya sighs. 

"Mr. Panarin," Sid says, wiping his hands off on the towel before offering one to Dedushka. "Nice to meet. Artemi good. Glad to have here." Artemi's heart pounds just a little. Dedushka shakes Sid's hand without comment. 

"Are you teaching him?" Dedushka asks. Artemi shakes his head. Sid picks up things from them every now and then, but Artemi's seen his little pocket dictionary. If Sid wants to do something, he will. 

"He's learning on his own. He's not good yet, but he tries." Artemi wants desperately for Dedushka to like Sid even if he can never, ever know about what goes on behind closed doors. Artemi is optimistic about most things, but he's not stupid. Dedushka loves him, but that is something he'll never stand behind. 

Artemi lingers behind when Zhenya herds everyone out toward the car. Sid waits until the door closes to snap his towel at Artemi's stomach. It stings, but Artemi just laughs. Sid's not actively sweating anymore, but his hair has curled around his ears and his cheeks are still pink and Artemi ducks in to kiss him quickly. He has the feeling Sid won't let him do anything else until all family members have returned to Russia. 

"You guys couldn't have warned me?" Sid asks. Artemi shrugs. 

"Mama want, mama get," he says. Sid laughs.

"Yeah, that sounds about right," he says. He looks over at the closed curtains of his window and leans in, bumping their foreheads together. "Game tomorrow. Don't stay up late."

"Boring grandmother," Artemi says and ducks out of the way before Sid can attack. 

After everyone's gotten a nap in, Artemi included, they spend the rest of the day showing Dedushka the city. He hums and listens as Artemi tells him about the steel factories and the museums. They eat dinner at the diner Zhenya's parents request and the waitstaff seems more impressed by them than the hockey players sitting with them. 

"You like this place?" Dedushka asks as Artemi tucks into his dessert. It's rich and sweet and he makes a note to remember this place for Sid. "Pittsburgh?"

"Yes," Artemi says. He peeks over at Zhenya, who's too busy laughing at the story his father is telling to pay them any attention. "If the Penguins want to resign me, I think I'm going to stay."

"They would be stupid not to," Dedushka says. Artemi grins and ducks his head. "You've played well this season. Bring us home a Cup."

"I'll try," Artemi says. And, oh, he's going to try.

\---

Artemi can't stop squirming. He gnaws on his gloves as he listens to the crowd growing, their voices filtering all the way down the hall to the locker room. He's glad they're starting at home. His nerves are already eating him up. He doesn't know how he'll survive when they go to New York. 

Sully's giving them last minute instructions, his booming voice not enough to block out the fans. Artemi startles when Zhenya puts a hand on his thigh, stilling him. Zhenya nods toward Sully, mouth in a flat line, and Artemi forces himself to focus. 

When he takes his spot behind Bones in line, he looks back over his shoulder, just in time to catch Sid and Zhenya knocking their helmets together. They've been here before. They've won before. If they're as nervous as he is, they don't show it. 

Artemi has heard over and over again that playoff hockey is a different game, but he hadn't understood it until this moment. The hits are harder, the rules both more and less strict at once. Every last person on the ice stinks of desperation and hunger. Artemi grits his teeth when he gets a trip that goes uncalled and rushes back onto his feet. 

The Penguins win, 5-2. The room after the game is happy, but it's not a celebration yet. There's still too much to do. Too many games left to win. 

Flower, sidelined by an injury halfway through the first, gives them all thumbs ups and smiles, even with his eyebrow still bleeding. Murray hovers around him anxiously, soaking up the praise the team throws his way. Artemi can't imagine this being his first game, can't imagine coming into play NHL hockey for the first time in the playoffs. He's had a chance to prepare, to make himself ready. 

"Good," Artemi says, patting Murray's head on his way to the shower. Murray laughs and shrugs. 

"You too."

They play. The Rangers are fierce and Lundqvist is a fucking wall. As the second and third game pass, as Sid and Zhenya begin to get frustrated with their own play, Artemi tries to remember Sid's advice from what feels like forever ago. Slumps happen. Targeting happens. He ups his game and forces points. When one can't, the others have to pick up the slack. 

It takes six games to win the series. Artemi's bruised and tired at the end of all of it, his body aching. It feels like all he does is play and eat. Natalia hugs him a lot, which Artemi takes with a guilty sort of joy. She cooks them food and doesn't seem to be mad when they pass out before nine o'clock every night. Dedushka waves away Artemi's apologies. 

"I'm here to watch you play," he says when Artemi apologizes, again, for not taking him out more. "We'll have plenty of time to catch up when you come back to Russia over the summer."

The idea makes his chest tighten a little. He misses Russia, misses his family and friends, misses not feeling like an idiot every time he talks. But he thinks about Sid, who hasn't brought up his worry again, and wonders if he could work just a little harder to get him to visit, too. 

The family leaves two days before the series against the Capitals starts. It feels like they've hardly been there at all. Artemi hangs onto Dedushka like a child at the airport, the homesickness that hasn't hit him in months churning inside him all over again. Dedushka pats Artemi's hair and wishes him well. They'll see each other in a few months. It shouldn't feel like leaving all over again. 

"You help Zhenya take care of Sidney," Natalia says when she hugs Artemi goodbye. Artemi feels his ears pinken. "Those two are useless on their own."

"Mama!"

"I will," Artemi says. He shakes Vladimir's hand and stands with Zhenya at the gate until everyone boards. They're both exhausted and pale, and Zhenya's hideous attempt at a goatee makes him look wan and gaunt. "I want to sleep forever."

"Sleep when we have a Cup," Zhenya says, clapping Artemi's shoulder. 

Sid's waiting for them at their house, reorganizing the tupperware in the freezer so it isn't quite so overflowing. His beard, if it can be called that, makes Artemi's face itch when they kiss. Artemi is too tired to make fun of him. 

They all collapse in Zhenya's bed, Artemi snuggled in warm and secure between them, and sleep until morning. 

\---

Artemi doesn't know what's up with Zhenya and Ovechkin. They're relatively friendly off the ice, their barbs more teasing than vicious, but on the ice they're like snarling dogs. Zhenya goads him about being unable to score, his voice low and ugly in a way Artemi hasn't really heard it before. 

The Capitals put up a hard fight. Artemi sneaks in two dirty goals in the second game of the series, but it isn't enough to help win. Zhenya is silent on the plane, brooding about the endless ugly press that's calling in for a trade. Artemi thinks it's stupid. It's all stupid. Zhenya was their highest scorer all season, had led them through games that seemed impossible to win. 

"They do this every season," Sid says quietly when he passes by on a trip from the bathroom. Half the team is asleep, the rest trying to get there. Sid looks older with the beard, even as he scratches at the patchiest bit under his chin. "We could win the Cup every year and they'd still call to trade him if he didn't put up a hundred points. He's not-" Sid sighs. "He'll get over it. He always does."

"Shouldn't need to," Artemi mutters. Sid huffs out a humorless laugh. 

"I know that," he says. "You know that. The whole team knows." Sid squeezes Artemi's shoulder. It's the most contact they've had since leaving the arena. "Get some sleep." Artemi watches Sid make his way up the aisle, watches him lay a gentle hand on top of Zhenya's head. 

Artemi leans against the window and watches America pass by under him. People are stupid and he hates all of them. 

\---

Artemi gets boarded by Backstrom in game five. His head smacks against the ice, his ears ringing as he takes a moment to just breathe. When he gets to his feet, he's dizzy. Zhenya's across the ice, shoving at Backstrom with his stick, face furious and voice loud enough to carry. Artemi wants to yell at him to cut it out, but Olli's leading him to the bench, one hand carefully cupping Artemi's elbow. 

Chris takes Artemi to the quiet room and runs him through the tests. Artemi can barely answer him, has trouble finding the words Chris is looking for, but he's cleared to go back out for the third period. He watches the team on the TV in the locker room, wholly unsurprised to see Zhenya fuming in the box. He winces when the Caps score. He should be out there. He should be helping. 

The team filters into the locker room, grim faced and tense. A few of them check in with Artemi, carefully ruffling his hair as they pass. Sid sits next to him, their thighs pressed together. Artemi can barely feel it through the padding, but he lets it ground him. They have another period to go and he has to be at his best. 

They lose anyway. 

And the Caps play hard and play violent, but the Penguins play harder. Better. 

Artemi gets his first NHL hat trick in game six on an absolutely beautiful pass from Zhenya. He shouts when the third goal horn sounds, throwing himself into the glass and into his teammates' arms. Consol goes crazy. Artemi can barely hear over the thunder of them. Hats rain down on the ice, tripping them up as they head back to the bench. Artemi hopes Dedushka is watching, hopes he's proud. 

Artemi's buzzing for the rest of the game, his body so amped up he feels like he's flying. Ovechkin hits him hard over and over again, his teeth bared and his mouth constantly open, but Artemi just pushes himself up, skates faster. They can do this tonight. They get to round three on just his hat trick and that makes everything else meaningless. 

Phil gets the empty netter two minutes before the horn. Artemi hugs Olli on the bench, laughing when Olli shoves an absolutely foul smelling glove into his face. They rush out onto the ice in a group, nearly steamrolling Phil straight down. Artemi gives him a wet, smacking kiss on the visor and ducks away before Phil can throw him into the net. Murray, who will probably play them out to the end, looks vaguely ill as the team congratulates him. 

"You keep playing like that, and you'll go far," Ovechkin tells Artemi in the handshake line, his fingers tightened around Artemi's. His mouth is turned down and his voice is soft, but he seems sincere enough. "I look forward to playing with you for Russia."

Artemi takes too long to respond and is on to the next person before he can think of anything to say. Alexander Ovechkin wants to play on a team with him. Alexander Ovechkin thinks Artemi's good enough for Russia to call on him at all. Artemi's embarrassed at himself for giving into an entirely justified moment of being star struck. 

Artemi skates out when his name is called for first star, raising his stick over his head. It feels dramatic, overblown, but the crowd yells for him. He can even stand, at least for tonight, his stupid nickname. 

Hags happily stuffs the warrior helmet onto Artemi's head when they're in the locker room, laughing when Artemi flails under him. It's heavy and it stinks like sweat, but Artemi wears it until the press leaves, beaming at anyone that so much as looks at him. Zhenya sighs a lot and tells him not to get an overinflated ego. 

Sid comes home with them, slap fighting with Zhenya over who's going to drive. Artemi collapses into the backseat of Zhenya's car and closes his eyes. He doesn't care who drives. He just wants to be home. They have three days until their next game and he's not planning on doing anything more strenuous than eating. In the end, Zhenya wins the driving competition. He speeds, which is nothing unusual, and Sid complains about it the whole way, and Artemi grins like an idiot all the way home.

Artemi chugs a bottle of Gatorade in the kitchen and drags himself upstairs to his bedroom, shedding his suit behind him in small piles. He falls face first onto his bed in his boxers, groaning at the sweet softness under his stomach. He's hungry, he's always hungry, but unless someone brings him something, he's going to suffer through it. 

"You did so good tonight," Sid says from the doorway. Artemi turns his head just enough to look at him. He's down to his underwear and a t-shirt, back-lit by the hall light. Artemi waves a weak hand at him. Sid laughs and sits next to his hip, warm and solid. "Geno demanded first star breakfast. Any requests?"

"Much food," Artemi mumbles. He lays his head on Sid's knee and hums when Sid's fingers stroke through his hair, untangling the knots that had formed during the game. "So much." Sid laughs. 

"I figured," he says. Artemi rolls onto his back with a groan and purses his lips until Sid leans down to kiss him. It's quick and chaste- because it's been over a month and Sid still hasn't let them get into his pants- but it's enough for now. "Night."

"Sleep here?" Artemi asks. He yawns, jaw clicking. Sid makes a face. 

"Geno-" 

"Sleep already. He old." Artemi adjusts himself so he's laying down properly and pats the mattress next to him. "Other room far. You here already. Sleep."

Sid opens his mouth like he's going to protest and shuts it on a sigh. He tucks himself behind Artemi, pulling the covers over them, one arm curling around Artemi's waist. He's warm and smells like locker room soap. Artemi thinks to say goodnight, but he's asleep between one breath and the next. 

He wakes up with a different man in his bed in the morning. Zhenya's warm and heavy, his mouth already sucking a mark into Artemi's hip. Artemi groans and curls his fingers into the dark mess of Zhenya's hair and closes his eyes to block out his hideous goatee. Zhenya gives head like a champ, but Artemi would rather think of him in his prime, clean shaven and vaguely normal looking. He only feels a little guilty about it. 

Breakfast and Sid are waiting for them in the kitchen. Sid's ears are a little pink and for a moment all Artemi can think of is that first night with Zhenya and the fallout that had happened after. He holds his breath, rubbing anxiously at the hickey that sits just over his boxers. 

"We spoil him," Zhenya says. He plants a sloppy kiss on Sid's head, grabs one of the plates from the counter, and wanders out into the living room. Sid rolls his eyes. "Spoil him, Sid!"

"You deserve it," Sid says with a grin. He follows Zhenya out to the living room, both their plates in his hands, and Artemi's left alone in the kitchen, feeling a little lost. "Food's going to get cold!"

They spend the day on front of the TV. Artemi sprawls out between them, head on Sid's lap and knees hooked over Zhenya's. He naps off and on, waking up long enough to eat whatever Sid makes and passing out again. It feels a little like a waste of a day, but he's comfortable and Sid has a habit of scratching behind Artemi's ears like he's a dog, and it's good. 

\---

They watch Bishop go down in game one. One moment he's standing, throwing himself across the goal to stop the puck, the next he's flat on the ice, screaming. Artemi's heart stops. He's halfway over the boards, one foot on the ice and one still dangling over the bench. Everything grounds to a halt. 

The team is silent as they watch the Lightning's trainers go onto the ice, as Bishop tries and fails to get up over and over again. His teammates give them a wide berth, but they all look crushed. Zhenya's rubbing at his own knee with his stick, eyes glued to the shitshow at the other end of the ice. Artemi holds his breath. 

He wants to win, but not at the cost of another player. 

Eventually, they manage to get Bishop onto a stretcher. The crowd, Penguins fans, they cheer. Artemi is so, so grateful for them in the moment. He doesn't know what he'd have done if they'd jeered, if they'd been ugly in the face of Bishop's pain. The stretcher passes by the bench, slow to avoid jostling Bishop's injury. Zhenya taps it with his stick, nodding to Bishop's leg. 

"Get better," he says. Bishop gives a weak nod, head lolling on the white cotton. 

There is no time for anything else. The whistle blows and the game is back on. Vasilevskiy is a brick wall. He shuts them all down, time and time again. The Penguins are playing better. Artemi knows they are, but it doesn't matter because they can't get the fucking puck in the net. Artemi smashes his stick against the boards after Vasilevskiy holds a shot that should have passed him by. It shatters, the knob skittering across the ice. Artemi bites down hard on his mouthpiece and forces himself to focus. 

Zhenya takes two stupid penalties in the second, his anger spreading out around him like a cloud. He's always been volatile, but this close to the Cup he can't hold himself together. Artemi gnaws on his gloves to keep himself from saying something stupid. They won't fight it out on the bench. It won't do any good. 

Kessel manages to get a goal in the third, but it's the only one of the night. 

On a deeper level, Artemi knows it's good the Lightning won for Bishop. He knows the crush of having a teammate there and then gone, knows the empty place that can't be filled by some call up. He's still pissed, though, violent as he strips out of his pads and packs his gear. He blows by the reporters that are already hounding Sid and sulks in Zhenya's car, still wet with the sweat from the game. 

As soon as they get home, they split into different parts of the house, licking their wounds in private. Artemi plays the game over in his mind, trying to find the flaws in their plays, trying to find the weak spots in his own game. It's like prodding at a sore tooth, painful but unavoidable. 

The rest of the series doesn't go much better. 

Every game is a battle, the wins gotten only by the skin of their teeth. They can't kept a lead to save their lives. Vasilevskiy plays better with each game even as his team leaves him stranded on his own. Horny's taken to saying that there has to be some sort of voodoo involved. No one player can be that good. 

They enter game seven angry. Artemi skates faster and harder, runs from the big bodies that have started targeting him as much as they target Zhenya and Sid. It means he's playing well. It means they still have a chance. He watches Sid take an elbow to the head that goes uncalled, watches him get toppled onto the ice from behind, and follows Sid's example instead of Zhenya's. Stay calm. Make yourself better when they want you to be worse. 

Zhenya gets the game winner. It's a beautiful goal, unassisted and shot through half the team into the top shelf. He roars, the fierce bear Sid always calls him, and Artemi throws himself into his arms, shouting meaningless bullshit into Zhenya's chest. The team crushes around them, hands and elbows flying as they all scramble to get a hand on Zhenya to thank him. 

When Artemi gets to him, Muzz looks shell shocked in the net, his mask tilted to the side from the rough handling it's gotten. Artemi rubs the top of it, laughing when Muzz stumbles back a step. He deserves the Conn Smythe, he deserves everything. Artemi doesn't have the words to tell him, and Tanger's already shoving him out of the way to do his own head patting. 

The handshake line is somber. Artemi repeats an endless litany of _good game_ , even if he feels like only half of them deserve it. Hollow, sad eyes greet him and Artemi feels for them. He really does. He doesn't want to imagine how heavy their disappointment must feel, to come so close two years in a row and lose both times. 

"You're a bastard," Artemi says when he gets to Vasilevskiy. He grips the hand that blocked a few dozen of his shots and squeezes. "You played better than anyone else this whole run and I never want to play you again." Vasilevskiy laughs, but it's a weak sound. 

"You're not so bad, either," he says, his voice soft and defeated. "Maybe we'll play for Russia together, huh?"

"Let's hope," Artemi says and skates the rest of the way off the ice. 

The room is in an uproar. Zhenya looks half drunk off the victory, throwing his arms around anyone who will stand still long enough to let him. Artemi lets himself be pulled in for a rough hug and laughs when he's pushed away in favor of Murray. 

Sid's already down to his Under Armour, smiling wide and happy as he talks to the reporters. He's flushed, sweating under his ball cap and scratching at his beard between questions. Artemi steals his hat and puts it on his own head as he wanders past. It's damp and stinks, but Sid's stupid laugh follows him all the way to the showers. 

Sid follows them home, slipping away from the growing group of guys that plan on getting wasted. Artemi nearly vibrates in the car, wide awake and floating off the endorphins rushing through him. He feels like he could play another game, feels like he could run around Pittsburgh until morning breaks. 

Artemi half climbs Zhenya as soon as they're in the house, door still unlocked for Sid to let himself in. Zhenya's hot and smells like locker room soap, his hair damp and curling around his ears. His hideous goatee has finally gotten soft, the thick hair tickling Artemi's mouth when he leans up for a kiss. Sid knocks into them when he comes in, arms flying up to wrap around both of them as they all teeter sideways. 

It's easy to turn his head, to trade kissing Zhenya for kissing Sid. Sid's arms tighten, pulling them all closer until everything Artemi can feel is just them, just their bodies and their warmth. Artemi runs his tongue over Sid's lip, tastes the chemical bitterness of Sid's chapstick. He squirms until he's between them, Zhenya at his back, Sid pressed tight to his front. He can't breathe, not really, but he feels almost like he doesn't need to. Like he could just live off Sid's recycled breaths. 

"I want-" Sid breaks away, tilting his head back to draw in a sharp breath. Artemi takes the moment to bite down on the tender skin there, the rasp of Sid's beard against his tongue strange and exciting. He wonders if Sid would let him leave a mark if they weren't going to be seen for awhile, wonders how far he and Zhenya could push until Sid made them stop. "I want-"

"What you want?" Zhenya asks. He hooks his chin over Artemi's shoulder, their cheeks pressed together. Artemi nuzzles against him like a cat. "We give. We always give."

Sid doesn't answer. Instead he backs away just enough to get a hand between himself and Artemi, settling it flat on Artemi's stomach. Artemi leans back against Zhenya, trusting him to hold his weight, and tilts his hips up. If Sid wants to finally touch him, Artemi's going to make it as easy as possible. 

Sid fumbles with the button fly of Artemi's pants until Zhenya bats him away and does it himself, jerking Artemi's shirt tails out hard enough to make Artemi lose his balance. Artemi groans when Sid's hand slides into the open v of his pants, cupping him over his briefs. His hand is hot and Artemi's dick jerks up toward it, eager and impatient. 

"Spoil him," Zhenya says against Artemi's neck. He catches a patch of skin between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to make Artemi shiver. 

It's messy and uncoordinated, Artemi's pants too tight and Sid's hand too big, but Artemi's so keyed up that it doesn't matter. He's got Zhenya humping up against the small of his back and Sid in front of him, chewing on his own lip and watching the twist of his wrist. It's the first time Sid's done anything besides grind against him and Artemi's weak kneed with want. He comes in his dry clean only pants and doesn't care one damn bit. 

Zhenya laughs when Artemi slumps against him, looping his arms under Artemi's and hauling him through the front hall and into the living room. He dumps Artemi on the couch, pausing only long enough to make sure Artemi won't roll off if left unattended. Artemi's not so sure he'll be able to move any time soon. 

Not that he has to. He watches as Sid shoves Zhenya up against the wall, watches the flex of his biceps as he pins Zhenya's arms to his sides. His dick gives a weak twitch of interest as Zhenya groans. Sid shoves one of those thick, glorious thighs between Zhenya's, giving him something to thrust against. And, fuck, but they're hot together. Artemi's watched them make out before, watched their mouths moving together and their hands move across skin, but this is different. Zhenya swears when he comes and Artemi laughs. 

"Our turn?" Artemi asks as Sid steps away. Zhenya slides to the floor, legs sprawled as wide as his pants will let him. Sid looks between them, the pink slip of his tongue ghosting over his lower lip, and Artemi thinks that maybe, _maybe_ , Sid will finally let them touch him. He dick is tenting his slacks, pushing the fly out, and he's the same splotchy red as when he steps off the ice. 

"Not-" Sid swallows and shakes his head. Artemi sighs and slumps back into the cushions. "Not until after the playoffs."

"Is okay," Zhenya mumbles. He taps Sid's ankle with his foot. "You have stupid no come rule all to yourself. We take all your orgasms for you."

"Thanks," Sid says dryly. He adjusts himself in his slacks with a sharp inhale. "You're so selfless, G." Zhenya grins. "I'm gonna-" Sid disappears up the stairs and Artemi watches him go. 

"Jesus, he's like a hurricane," Artemi says. Zhenya snorts and staggers to his feet. The whole couch shifts back when he drops down next to Artemi. "Think he's jerking off or just steel willing his hard-on away?"

"I'd go look, but I don't think I'm up for moving," Zhenya says. He leans into Artemi's side, pushing them both down onto the couch. He's too heavy for it to be comfortable, but it makes it easy for Artemi to lean up and kiss him. It's lazy and wet, Zhenya's mouth soft and curved against his. "Good game, Tema. Keep it up."

"You, too," Artemi says. He groans and shoves at Zhenya's shoulders. "Now get off me, fatass."

"Wrong boyfriend," Zhenya mumbles. Artemi freezes. None of them have really talked about it, what they are outside of _not casual_ , whatever that's supposed to mean. Boyfriends, Artemi thinks. Apparently that's what it means. 

Sid walks back into the room and shakes his head at them. He's changed into the sweats that live almost permanently in Zhenya's bathroom and his bare chest is still damp. Cold shower, then, Artemi thinks with a grin. 

"You guys are so pathetic," Sid says, fondness bleeding through the words. He holds his hand out and thumps Zhenya's hips with his knee until Zhenya reluctantly takes it. Artemi rubs at his crushed chest and sucks in a deep breath. 

"Finalists," he says. It comes out kind of garbled, the word a new one in his vocabulary, but Sid still laughs. 

"Come on, hot shot, I'm starving and you need to change pants." Sid wanders off toward the kitchen, humming something under his breath. Artemi kicks his shoes off and shoves his pants down. He grimaces when he pulls the front of his briefs away from his dick. It's mostly dry. He can live with it through dinner at least. 

\---

Artemi spends the days leading up to the Cup finals packing a suitcase. Win or lose, he's got tickets to Russia already bought, the flight set out to leave in a little over a month. Zhenya will be on the flight with him, but they'll part ways in Moscow. Sid's offered to see them off at the airport, but he'll only be able to go so far. 

No one has said anything to Artemi or his agent about extending his time with the Penguins. They've talked about the performance bonus he's going to get, made noises about the trophies they think he'll win, but that's all. His stomach twists when he thinks about them not wanting him, about having to leave. 

He's done well this season, still has more to give for the last series. He leads rookies in all categories of play. He's scored game changers. He's a stable left winger for Zhenya's fluctuating line. It has to be enough to want to keep him, he tells himself. There's nothing else he can do but flat out ask, and he won't shame himself like that. He'll find out in the offseason, just like everyone else does. 

In the meantime, he'll play in Russia and keep himself busy. Hockey is hockey, no matter what. He'll deal with everything else once he knows. 

\---

Artemi nets his second NHL hat trick in game one. The Sharks are playing sloppy and everything is just clicking for the Penguins. Every pass seems telegraphed from yards away, every play executed like they're at practice instead of battling against the west's top team for the Cup. Muzz is a brick wall down in their end, body looming large enough in the net that the Sharks can't find purchase. Even the hits, hard and vicious as they are, don't seem to make a difference. 

They take the game 4-1. Their crowd is deafening, their cheers like a tidal wave that crashes over the team and makes them dizzy. They're so close Artemi can taste the victory, the victory that matters, on the back of his tongue. 

He's a pain in the locker room, sneaking in behind people during their interviews and grinning at the cameras, running away before the reporters can sink their claws into him, too. Horny manages to trap him under one of those hulking, massive biceps, keeping Artemi in a headlock as he answers boring question after boring question. It squashes Artemi's face next to Horny's reeking, sweaty armpit and Artemi pulls out what English he can to make his case to the reporters. They do nothing but laugh, which is better than anything else they usually do. 

When they get home, Zhenya follows Artemi into his room and helps him burn off the excess energy swirling inside him. 

The next two games don't go as smoothly. 

They struggle for every goal, the shifts getting longer and longer as they battle in the neutral zone, a back and forth that refuses to settle. Thornton rides Sid every chance he gets, blocking him off at every turn. On the bench, Sid vibrates with frustration, gnawing on his mouth guard and twisting his hands around his stick. Artemi's not doing much better. 

He gets a cross check to the back of the neck in game three that leaves him reeling. The world swims for a moment, reduced to nothing but blur of white and blue. He staggers off to the bench, skates sliding unevenly across the ice as he swivels to avoid crashing into Pavelski. Chris hovers over him, his voice raised to be heard over the crowd as he asks Artemi about the hit. Artemi shakes his head, which hurts his neck, but he doesn't feel nausea or dizziness. It'll hurt like a bitch in the morning, but his head is fine and that's all that matters. 

The next time Zhenya is on the ice, he crushes Burns into the boards and that answers any questions Artemi had about who'd gone after him. 

Coach forces Artemi to sit three shifts out. Artemi bites his tongue and forces his frustration down. The team is struggling and he can't help and his neck aches and he want to be out there getting his revenge. The game is tied at the end of the second, 1-1. It's pathetic and Sully lets them have it in the room, his voice a bellow that shakes Artemi's bones. They're better than this. 

It takes fifteen long minutes until they can sink another goal. Fifteen long, painful minutes of staring Jones down and running from Burns and Polak. Artemi manages to steal the puck in the neutral zone off a bad pass and he makes a run for the Sharks' zone. Jones is out of the net, space behind him, his arms spread wide. It's a ploy, one he's used too many times in the game already. Artemi keeps his gaze forward, lifts his stick, and makes a blind hail Mary pass to his right, hoping like hell that Zhenya is there to receive it. 

He hears the goal horn as he's setting up for the next play. Kuni crashes into him, locking his arm around Artemi's neck and shouting into his ear. Zhenya and Olli join in and Artemi shouts along with them. When he gets back to the bench he watches the replay on the jumbotron. It's a gorgeous, by the book tic-tac-toe goal, Artemi's pass hitting Zhenya's stick, bouncing off for Kuni's and then sailing past Jones. 

It's the game winner. They're up three in the series. One more game. They only need to win one more game and they're champions. Artemi stares at the shredded silver paint in the center of the ice and thinks about bringing the Cup to Pittsburgh, back where it belongs. 

\---

They lose game four, 2-1. Game five starts as a disaster and doesn't get better. 

Nothing is working and the Sharks have gone from desperation to viciousness. Couture boards Tanger in front of the refs, his stick smacking into the letters on Tanger's back, arm tucked under the bright white line of Tanger's helmet. He gets a single minor. Tanger goes to the quiet room, swearing loudly in French and English both as he passes by. Sid throws an arm out over Artemi on the bench, his gloved hand curling into Zhenya's sweater. His elbow pushes uncomfortably on Artemi's sternum as he leans forward to catch Zhenya hard, angry eyes. 

"Don't even think about it," Sid says. On the ice, Phil crashes the net, only to be turned away by Jones. "We need you out there. Don't you fucking dare." Zhenya's jaw goes tight as Sid releases him. Artemi, stuck between them, wants to yell until his voice goes hoarse. 

Tanger eventually comes back out, his left eye a little swollen and his face set into a grim, angry sort of expression that makes Artemi's stomach turn. This hasn't been a good year for Tanger full stop. He needs this win. Duper and Mario and Daley need this win. 

They don't get it. 

\---

Artemi leaves the house before Zhenya wakes up. They play game six tomorrow and the anticipation is making him sick and anxious, his body wound too tight to do anything but move. He walks through the quiet neighborhood, waving at a few of the people he recognizes. They don't try to talk to him and he's grateful for it 

He wants to call Dedushka and listen to the easy, expectatationless confidence he always brings, but it's too late in Russia. He thinks about the parties he's already been invited to by friends there, thinks about the long flight he and Zhenya will have to suffer through not once but twice. Thinks about his stats and lets himself believe he's too good to be moved. 

The summer air is hot all around him, stifling. He's sweating under his t-shirt, his shorts sticking to his thighs with every step. His scalp itches under his damp hair, officially way too long. It brushes the nape of his neck and sticks to his forehead, collecting sweat and dripping it into his eyes. He takes a turn at the end of the block and angles himself toward Sid's house. 

They don't spend much time there. Sid prefers Zhenya's house and Artemi is usually too lazy to leave. It feels like a foreign place. Artemi shuffles his feet as he walks, head tucked down against his chest. He checks the time and is surprised to see an hour has passed. The walk hasn't done him much good. He's still keyed up, maybe more now than when he'd woken up. 

It takes a while for Sid to answer the door. He's barefoot and damp, shirt clearly pulled on in haste. He looks surprised to see Artemi there, but he just smiles and holds the door open. The blast of cold air that hits Artemi's skin when he walks in makes him shiver. It feels so good. 

"Hey," Sid says. "What's up?" He leans against the wall, head tipped back and eyes half shut. He looks tired. Thin. His beard doesn't do much to hide how sharp his cheekbones have gotten. 

"Too-" Artemi shrugs. He toes off his shoes and places the next to the door. "Sleep bad. Head is busy. I take walk." 

"Didn't work?" Sid asks. Artemi shakes his head. He looks down at his wet shirt and grimaces. He pulls it off and lays it flat on the floor. Sid makes a face at him but Artemi ignores it. It needs washed anyway and Sid uses the same maid service as Zhenya. The floor is clean enough. "I was gonna take a nap, but if you want to work out or something it can wait."

"Never work out again," Artemi moans. His body feels like it's eating itself more often than not. He's learned to ignore the constant ache in his legs, usually pushes through it without really paying any attention, but he's already walked at least three miles and Sid is notoriously devious when he's in charge of the training plan. "Already walk."

"That's not actually working out," Sid says. He sighs and turns toward the kitchen. "Go shower. You stink. I'll make breakfast."

"You stink," Artemi grumbles in Russian. Still, he heads to the bathroom off Sid's room and scrubs the sweat off himself with Sid's Irish Spring. He lays his damp shorts out on the floor of Sid's bedroom to be ornery and swipes a pair of boxers. They're a little baggy, but he's not naked and that's what counts. 

Sid's got a radio in the kitchen. It's old and mostly picks up static, but he refuses to replace it. Artemi listens to Sid singing along to whatever's playing, his voice a low rumble as he moves from counter to stove. A warm pulse of fondness bullies its way into Artemi's chest. He thinks about that first day, that lunch where Sid did his best to make Artemi feel welcome to a new team, a new country. He curls himself around Sid's back and rests his head on Sid's shoulder. They're the same height, but Artemi can't quite coax his body into the same broadness of Sid's. 

"Hey," Sid says again. He lets Artemi hang off him as he pokes at the omelette in the pan. "Does Geno know you're here? I don't want him to worry."

"Sleeping," Artemi says. Sid huffs out a short laugh. "I am man. Not baby."

"You're kind of a baby," Sid says. He wiggles free to slide the omelette onto the cutting board embedded into the countertop surface. He cuts it in half and puts it on two plates, carrying them out to the living room. Artemi's stomach grumbles. He's so sick of eating all the time. 

They eat on the couch, the TV turned to some show about truckers. Artemi watches with his head tilted to the side, watching the endlessly large trucks sliding over ice that should be too thin to hold their weight, eating mechanically. His phone buzzes on the table after the second episode of the truck show. 

_you dead?_

**yes. sid's cooking sucks**

_try telling him that._

Artemi grins and slides his phone back onto the table. Zhenya will probably show up in the next few hours, complaining about being bored and hungry. For all the jokes everyone makes at Sid's expense about him being afraid of alone time, Zhenya is maybe worse about it. Artemi doesn't mind being their company. 

"I'm gonna get that nap now," Sid says around a yawn. "You can come or just hang out down here." He gathers up the plates and Artemi rolls up to his feet. His head is still too full of worry about the game, about the postseason, but he's tired and full and a nap sounds good. 

Sid's bed is softer than Zhenya's and Artemi's, shaping around them as they settle down. Artemi waits until Sid's stopped moving and lays flat over him. Sid grunts but doesn't make him move. His hand lands on Artemi's back, fingers curling around his shoulder blade carefully, his short nails scraping across Artemi's skin. 

"It was good to have you over," Sid mumbles, already half gone. Artemi kisses the bicep closest to his face and closes his eyes. It's easy to fall asleep with Sid breathing slow and steady under him. 

\---

The Cup is in the building. Artemi gets dressed for the game with shaking hands. The Cup is somewhere in the SAP Center, just waiting for someone to win it. He's listened all day to people talking about the Sharks forcing a game seven, about the Penguins dropping the ball hard after pulling so far ahead. But the Cup is in the building and Artemi's going to do everything he possibly can to get his hands onto it tonight. 

"We're a good team," Sid says before they line up. He looks around at all of them, his head held high and his faith in them unwavering. "Let's go out there, play our game, and bring the Cup back to Pittsburgh, eh?" The team cheers, shuffling forward through the room toward the tunnels. 

Artemi crashes his fist against Sid and Zhenya's as he passes them and looks back over his shoulder to watch them bump their helmets together. Anticipation builds under his skin, shivering and aching for the ice. The Sharks fans boo as the Penguins' starting line is announced, but his team holds their heads high. They're going to win. Artemi can feel it in his bones. They're going to _win_.

Both teams explode from the start. Sid gets the first faceoff, the puck sailing back onto Horny's stick and they're off. Artemi tracks the action on the bench, watching for weaknesses in the Sharks' play. He's watched so much game tape in the last three weeks he thinks he'll be dreaming in blue and white for months, but they keep changing things up just enough to throw him off balance. When Sully taps his shoulder, he jumps the boards, skating toward the pile up in the corner of the Sharks' zone. 

Cole wins the board battle and Artemi rushes to get the freed puck. He one-times it to the goal and Jones shuts play down. They line up at the faceoff circle, Zhenya a looming and steady presence on Artemi's right. Zhenya loses the face off, but Kuni steals the puck in the neutral zone and Artemi pivots to go after him. 

It's a tense, tight period. The Penguins have possession more often than not, but the Sharks' defense is impenetrable. Burns hounds Artemi every time they're on the ice together, his voice a constant buzz of anger in Artemi's ears. Artemi ignores him as best he can. He gets three more shots on goal, but none of them go in. 

Twelve minutes in, Hags nets a vicious slapshot. It's the only goal of the period, but it's enough to boost their spirits. They go into the second period confident. 

Tanger gets sent to the box for interference and the Sharks capitalize, tying the game up. Four minutes later, Couture takes a hooking penalty. Sid sets Zhenya up for a beautiful goal that sails in high and they're back in the lead. Artemi crushes Sid to his chest, shouts compliments in his ear that come out a garbled mix of languages. They're so, so close.

They sit in the locker room during second intermission, silent while Sully runs over his and Sid's notes. They can't get cocky. Artemi repeats it in his head over and over. They can't just ride, not tonight. When they troop back for the last time of the night- maybe the last time of the season- Artemi takes a deep breath and kisses the end of his stick. It's freshly taped, has lasted him all game, and will hopefully get the team another goal. He's not as superstitious as Sid, but he lets himself have this one. 

The Sharks barely let them leave their zone. Muzz blocks shot after shot, the rotating cast of defense in front of him falling down hard on the job. He's wide-eyed and panting behind his mask, but he doesn't slow down. It takes nearly five full minutes of play to escape into the neutral zone, and another two to set foot in front of Jones. 

Artemi slams off the boards after getting a shot off, Burns' face so close to his Artemi can smell his breath. Burns, with his ragged beard and his wild eyes, looks like a feral creature, ready to be set off by the smallest wrong step. Artemi curls his hands in his gloves and shoves back against him. He won't rise to the bait. The team doesn't need him in the box. 

The Sharks pull Jones with two minutes and thirty seconds left in the period. They've been strong, have kept the Penguins penned in to wear them down, and it's working. Artemi's legs feel weak as he lines up next to Zhenya, his lungs aching as he sucks in a deep breath. He doesn't think he'll survive another period. They have to win this now or lose everything. 

Zhenya loses the face off, but they'd planned on it happening. Olli and Lovejoy swarm Couture, smashing him from both sides. Kuni gets a stick on the puck, but Marleau sweeps it away before he can clear. It skitters off to the corner behind the net and Zhenya races after it, body braced against the boards as he battles for possession. Artemi stays back, elbowing at Martin as Martin tries to put him out of position. 

Zhenya escapes with the puck, long legs eating up the ice as he guides it out past the blue line. Artemi keeps a few paces behind him, waiting. Martin checks him hard and Zhenya drops the puck back. Artemi scoops it up and races. He's small and fast and everyone's been so focused on Zhenya that they've forgotten about him. 

The empty net looks cavernous, the sagging twine fire bright as Artemi pushes toward it. He can hear the sound of someone chasing after him, can hear the frantic shouts of his teammates urging him on, but all he can see is the empty net. Someone smacks him from behind, sending him sprawling onto his stomach, his chin glancing across the ice hard enough his teeth ache. He lets his body slide, swiping at the puck with his stick. It's sloppy and weak, but he has to try. 

The goal horn goes off as he's lifting himself back to his feet. 

The world spins, faces blurring as someone- Zhenya, has to be Zhenya- hauls him the rest of the way up and swings him around. Olli hits the pile next, his helmet smacking against Artemi's hard enough to jolt them both. The crowd is booing, shouting at them, but Artemi can barely hear them over the sweet sound of his teammates congratulating him. 

He skates off to the bench and sits down with just enough time to catch the replay. It's maybe the sloppiest goal he's ever scored in his life, but it doesn't matter. There's only a minute left on the clock and they're up by two. Flower throws his arm around Artemi's neck around and drags him in, fist lightly tapping Artemi's sore chin. 

"Good thing you have an ugly goatee to break your fall, yes?" He asks. Artemi snorts and rubs his stinking glove all over Flower's ugly face. 

Artemi watches the clock as much as he watches the ice. It feels like time has slowed to a crawl, the whistle blowing every few seconds and play starting and stopping in choppy waves. Phil crashes the net, but Jones is back in place and gloves it down. They line back up. Artemi fumbles his gloves off, shaking his wrists until they go flying somewhere behind him. He curls one hand around Zhenya's wrist above his glove, locks the other around Flower's sweaty palm. He's probably squeezing too hard, but Flower just squeezes back. Zhenya's a tight ball of tension, body a steady anchor that Artemi needs to hold him down. 

The team starts cheering with four seconds left on the clock. Zhenya shoots to his feet, dragging Artemi up with him. The Sharks are circling Muzz, desperate for that last shot, but it never comes. The buzzer sounds and the bench explodes out onto the ice. They won. Holy fuck they won. 

Artemi jumps onto the pile of his teammates already gathered next to the net, hanging off Horny's shoulders. Horny holds him up like he weighs nothing. Artemi feels weightless, like his joy might send him straight into the rafters as if nothing holds him down. He's shouting, but the words don't matter. Horny turns and Artemi latches onto Olli, his skates hitting the ice. He nearly tumbles down, but the bodies of his teammates keep him upright. 

They line up for Muzz, jostling each other as they skate toward him. He looks exhausted, his mask long knocked off, but his smile stretches so wide across his face Artemi knows he doesn't feel it at all. Artemi rubs Muzz's sweaty hair and thanks him. They wouldn't have gotten here without him. 

The trainers round them up, passing out white hats with the Cup on them to each member of the team. Artemi pulls his on over his heavy hair. Zhenya grabs him by the waist and bullies him into the center of a group of the guys to take a selfie. Artemi grins at their stupid faces reflected back through the screen of Zhenya's phone and hopes he'll remember this forever. 

It takes forever for the carpet to be rolled out. Artemi shifts in his skates as the speeches are given, anxious to get his hands on all that shiny silver that's so close. He's not surprised at all when Sid wins the Conn Smythe. 

Finally, finally, they call Sid back up to take the Cup, to claim it for the Penguins and Pittsburgh. Sid hoists it above his head, turning back to them to roar his satisfaction. In that moment, he's so beautiful that Artemi can barely breathe. Sid skates his lap around the ice before passing the Cup off to Daley. Artemi scoops him up in a hug, breathing in the sharp smell of hard-won sweat. Sid laughs and hugs him back. 

The Cup passes from hand to hand. Artemi watches each one of his teammates, pride swelling so large in his chest that it might burst. When Muzz takes his turn, Artemi whistles. His ears hurt and his throat aches, but he can't stop making noise, can't stop cheering on his team. 

He accepts the Cup from Muzz, his sweaty fingers locking around the base and rim of the bowl. It's so heavy as he swings it over his head and he's afraid he's going to drop it, but the thrum of satisfaction burning through him overshadows everything else. He presses his lips to the cold metal and shuts his eyes as he takes his lap. They've done it. They won the fucking Cup, he's holding it in his hands. His name is going to be there with Sid's and Zhenya's and Flower's and fucking Lemieux's. 

He's a Stanley Cup champion. 

Time swells and blurs all around them, the crowd's booing easy enough to ignore. Sid keeps picking up the Cup and staring down at it, his mouth curled up at the edges. Artemi wants to tease him, wants to bring up the photo Zhenya had showed him of Sid asleep with the Cup beside him, but he understands. It doesn't feel real. 

There's an endless parade of photos and people on the ice. People keep hugging Artemi, team and people he doesn't really know. Mario claps him on the shoulder and gives him a broad, joyous smile that makes Artemi's hero worship flare up. Zhenya bullies him and Sid into taking another selfie, all of them sweating and red, their awful facial hair plastered down to their chins. 

When they finally get back to the locker room, Artemi yanks on the white t-shirt at his stall, staring down at the Roman letters and the decal of the Cup. There are speeches and cheers and champagne everywhere. 

Artemi drinks from the Cup, Zhenya pouring it over him, and he laughs when more champagne ends up on him than in him. Zhenya's smiling so wide his cheeks have puffed out and Artemi wants to kiss him so badly he aches with it. Sid's eyes are suspiciously damp when he takes Artemi's place. Artemi watches champagne curl down over Sid's throat, down onto his chest, and has to look away before he does something stupid in public. 

They celebrate until the staff kicks them out. Artemi can barely walk, but Flower holds him up on one side, his laughter bright. Artemi turns his head and kisses Flower's cheek loud and messy. Flower returns the gesture with a laugh and dumps him into the waiting car. Zhenya and Sid climb in after him, Sid's heavy body pinning Artemi to the door. 

The ride doesn't register. All Artemi can think of is the weight of the Cup in his hands, the joy that radiated from his team. From Sid and Zhenya. He only knows they're at Zhenya's house when the door opens and he falls out onto the driveway. Sid laughs, that loud, stupid laugh that makes him sound so young, and hauls Artemi to his feet. 

Sid yanks him up the driveway and over the threshold, catching Artemi against his chest when he trips. All of them smell like champagne, like the heavy stink of sweat and liquor. Artemi crashes his mouth to Sid's, licking the fuzzy, bubbling taste from his lips and laughing. Faintly, he can hear Zhenya locking the door behind them, can hear him clumsily stripping out of his clothes. The brim of Sid's cap- his _Stanley Cup champion_ cap- keeps bumping Artemi's forehead, but Artemi's hands are too busy squeezing Sid's ass to bother adjusting it. 

"Bed before you fall," Zhenya says against the back of Artemi's neck. His teeth scrape the skin there and Artemi jerks between them. Sid laughs against Artemi's mouth. 

They all almost go down in a tangle anyway as they stumble toward the downstairs guest room. It seems fitting. Sid falls back on the bed fully dressed, letting out a pained grunt when Artemi follows down after him. Zhenya collapses on top of both of them, squashing them all together, and Artemi groans. 

Sid manages to tip them all over onto their sides with a show of strength that makes Artemi's dick stand at attention. Zhenya curls his long arm around both of them, holding them in tight. 

"We win," Zhenya says quietly. 

"We won," Sid says back. Artemi can barely make out his smile in the dark. 

"We win," Artemi echoes, because it feels right. Three times is the charm, or so he's been told. He turns his head to kiss Zhenya's bicep. Artemi feels anchored here between them. Secure. 

He's home.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [We Are the Time, We Are the Famous (the New York remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10573203) by [xihale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xihale/pseuds/xihale)




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